Die Smiling (3 page)

Bud decided to take time to kiss Brianna's cheek and comfort her with a full-fledged body hug. Seemed like everyone was taking Race's dilemma in stride. Bud didn't seem particularly intent on letting go of Finn any time soon, so I decided that was my cue to get involved.

I said, “Okay, now, let's all get a grip here. Bring it down a notch.” I addressed the irate red-haired young twenty-something holding the weapon. “What seems to be the problem, ma'am? Surely whatever it is, it's not worth all this commotion.”

“Maybe not to you.” She commenced with a severe blinking thing going on, holding back a flood of distraught tears, I presumed. I inched toward her, watching the white plastic bowl of caustic-smelling liquid she gripped in one hand. I sure as hell didn't want that stuff on my favorite black Remington T-shirt. She sobbed a couple of times then said to me, “Just look at it, my hair. Look what he did to me! There's no way I can compete now, and the pageant's getting ready to start! I've been rehearsing my baton-twirling routine for a good six weeks.” More boo-hooing commenced.

I observed her hair. True, it was extremely frizzy on one side, and all broken off, and not a shade of red that was easy on the eyes. Maybe more like a bright shade of orangey pumpkin. Actually, she was sporting a do and hue closely akin to a Halloween Ronald McDonald after a drunken binge.

Always the diplomat, I said, “I think you look just fine, ma'am.”

“Are you freakin' serious? It looks like a freakin' jack-o'-lantern and he burned the hell out of one side of it. It's not even two inches long!”

True, alas, all true. While I tried to come up with a comforting word or two, Bud managed to get over Brianna's lush curves long enough to join the negotiations. “It doesn't look that bad to me, either, uh, what's your name again, miss?”

“Corkie.”

“Corkie? Seriously?” To give Bud credit, he didn't even grin.

“Yeah, so what?”

I knew a Corkie once, but he was a dog. I didn't mention that observation, either. I said, “Know what? I think you might be overreacting just a tad, Corkie. Put down that stinky stuff, whatever it is, and let's talk about this in a calm, adult manner. That smell's making people nauseous.”

Corkie hesitated, thought about things a second or two. She said, “You just don't get it, do you? Just look at you. You look pretty without a dab of makeup on, and you obviously didn't take time to do a thing with your hair either.” She eyed me critically with fierce beauty contestant acumen. “You'd look a lot better if you got some highlights, you know. Probably not ash, but not too gold, either, though. It'd really bring out that honey color. Really, you oughta consider it.” Then she remembered her plight. Her grip tightened on her weapon. “But not here. Not with him doing it. Look at me, I'm ruined!”

“Maybe Mr. Race can fix your hair. Bud told me on the way over that he's a genius with hair and nails.”

“Evil genius, you mean.”

I considered that. Didn't know for sure, so I just shrugged.

“I am
not
an evil genius. Girl,
really
, how dare you?” Mr. Race was sputtering with full-fledged indignation as he glared at me. Hey, I didn't say it. I ignored him. He couldn't get at me. He was tied up nice and tight.

I remembered my LAPD hostage training and negotiation techniques. “Okay, Corkie, all you're doing right now is getting yourself in trouble. You don't wanna go to jail, do you? This is false imprisonment and threat of bodily harm. Assault, possibly. We'll have to add battery if you throw that stuff on him. Sitting all night in a cell with a bunch of drunks and hookers isn't going to help you get ready for the competition, now is it? This mistake can be fixed. Have you thought of just cutting it very short? That's what I'm going to do with mine.”

Corkie let out a discouraged wail, almost equal in pitch to Mr. Race's, but not quite there before she gave it up. “But judges at the Lake never choose contestants with short hair to win! They like French twists and French braids! And sometimes big eighties hair!”

“Well, there's always a first time. Be different, think outside the box this year. Nick Black's one of the judges, isn't he? He told me himself that he liked my hair short, the shorter the better, he said.” That wasn't exactly true, in fact, he said he liked it long enough to tangle both hands in, but luckily, he knew where to put his hands when it was short, too.

“You know Nick Black personally? My God, he is so freakin' hot.”

I nodded, tried not to look smug about my choice of guys.

“You mean it? He likes short hair? He's hot, and I mean,
whoa
,
get the ice water
hot. Oh, my God, those blue eyes and that black hair, and all that money. He's so freakin' hot.”

Corkie had suddenly turned into Paris Hilton sans the orange jumpsuit, at least not yet, but that might be coming later today. A terrible plight, to be sure.

I said, “Yes ma'am, that's the gospel truth. And he told me just the other day that New York and Milan models were cutting their hair ultra short this year. And what's her name? Petra, maybe, something like that? She's gone short, and I saw Keira Knightley on TV the other night and she had a pixie cut. You can be the first around here to buck the old long-hair trend. You'll stand out, Corkie, you'll be noticed.”

Bud said, “Yeah. I'm a man, and I like short hair. And that color orange is good, too. Cyndi Lauper had orange hair once in one of her videos, right? And so does Carrot Top.”

I gave Bud my best
are-you-friggin'-nuts
look.

Corkie said, “I know who Carrot Top is and I like his hair okay, but who's Cyndi Lauper?”

Bud looked startled that she didn't know about girls who just wanted to have fun, and I wondered if I was in a particularly asinine dream. Brianna joined our deep, insightful conversation.

“Oh, Corkie, please, be reasonable, now. Mr. Race can recut and recolor it, and I'm sure he'll do it all free of charge. He'll work on you until you're completely satisfied, won't you, Mr. Race?” She didn't give him time to refuse. “And tell you what, I'll do your makeup down at Swank's Couture myself. No charge. That's a $150 value.”

Corkie perked up big-time. She lowered the perm solution a bit. Yes, we were good police negotiators. Trained to handle anything, even.

But Corkie wasn't done. She hadn't pouted yet. “Race hasn't even apologized. He just said I was having a bad hair day.”

We all looked at Mr. Race. He did not look repentant.

Bud said, “Mr. Race, now is a good time to say something nice to Corkie. After all, you did burn off one side of her hair and make it orange.”

“Okay, okay. Corkie, sweetie, I'm sorry, okay? I just misjudged the ingredients, or maybe I did get the wrong color, but it's been so hectic around here this week with all the contestants demanding extras. I'll fix you up, just like they said, no charge, anything you want. We can do hair extensions, if you want it long for the festivities.”

Now Corkie looked delighted. She put down the bowl. She untied the stylist. They embraced like old lovers, kissed cheeks even, both sides, Continental style. Crisis over. Everybody could go back to watching soap operas. God was good. God save the Queen.

After everyone was friends again and thank-yous were exchanged all around, Brianna walked us to the door. She took both Bud's hands at the door and breathed out. “Bud, you were wonderful.”

I couldn't quite figure where she got that, since she and I were the ones who talked Corkie down from her chemical crime spree, and Bud screwed up by mentioning Lauper and Carrot Top. Maybe the wonderful she was referencing was Bud's groping. One thing I did know. I was ready for more important things.

Bud said, “I'm glad to be of help. We're still on for tonight, right?”

Brianna nodded and snuggled in close for a second go-round. She'd probably been watching
The Young and the Restless
, too, and Bud did have his .45 to turn her on with. I tried to look nonchalant instead of irked as they enjoyed a couple of minutes of a really good time, during which I began to wish Black would get back to town. He was in San Francisco, hosting a seminar at Berkeley on personality disorders, several clinical examples of which I might've just witnessed. He was due in later today. Maybe we could find an episode of
The Young and the Restless
to get us all hot and bothered.

Bud and Finn finally came up for air. Good thing, my patience was running thin. She said, “I don't know, Bud. My sister's here, you remember. I want you to meet her.”

“Yeah, I want to. Bet she's not nearly as pretty as you.” Bud, a.k.a. Charm Meister.

Finn laughed. “Oh, my goodness, Hilde's always been the pretty one. I'm the smart one.”

Uh-oh, I thought. Brianna looked like a triple cross between Heidi Klum, Nicole Kidman, and the aforementioned Jessica Simpson. There wasn't anybody on God's green earth prettier than that. Except maybe Rob Lowe in
St. Elmo's Fire
. The smart part was iffy, too, but Finn did seem to have pretty much on the ball upstairs, a lot more than most models, a caste about which I knew very little, truth be told. She is really nice, too. I know that firsthand, but she'd won a bunch of beauty pageants in the past and that usually didn't score so high in the gray-matter department. But maybe I was biased against inhumanly attractive women.

Brianna looked at me as if she'd heard what I'd been thinking. I smiled brightly to hide my guilt. She looked troubled. “Actually, Claire, I'm really concerned about Hilde. She got down here a week ago from Kansas City and took a place up at Royal Bungalows.”

That was one of the rental places Black owned on the lake, I recalled, but what didn't he own around here? He just loved buying things, especially hotels. All over the world, too. He wasn't too shabby in the gift-buying department, either. I found that out last Christmas just before all hell broke loose around the lake.

Bud said, “S'matter, Bri? You said the two of you had a good long visit the night she got here.”

“I know, but that was several days ago. I haven't seen Sis since she moved up to the Royal. She told me she was exhausted and wanted to take a couple of days off to rest so I've pretty much left her alone. But now I'm worried. I couldn't get through on her cell last night, and she's not answering this morning, either. She's over an hour late for Mr. Race, and she never shows up late for hair appointments, especially right before a pageant's dress rehearsal.”

Bud said, “Maybe she went shoppin' up in Jeff City at the Mall? Or maybe she's just outside on her deck, enjoying the warm weather.”

“I don't know. I have bad vibes about all this, Bud. She's had stalkers in the past, and she always picks up on her cell, you know, in case it's her agent with a job offer. I'm half an hour late for work or I'd run up there myself. Pageant alterations and makeup appointments are keeping us so busy down at the boutique. I've been working late every night this week.”

Bud said, “Well, how 'bout Claire and I checkin' out her place? I wanna meet her anyway.”

Yeah, I wanted to get a load of her, too, but if she looked better than Finn, I wasn't sure I could take the shock.

“You mind, Claire?”

“Nope. It's right on the way to the target range. No problem.”

“Okay, Bri. Don't worry 'bout a thing. I'll call you as soon as I talk to her.”

We headed to our car, leaving Mr. Race happily snipping away on Corkie's pumpkin hair and gossiping about the other contestants, just like old times. High Noon at the Winning Locks was over. Bud walked Brianna to her red Corvette, the one she'd won in the Miss Miami Pageant a few years ago, and to think, she's just the smart one. I watched the two of them smooching their good-byes and looked away. Bud was a goner, all right. He might as well turn in his bachelor badge and buy the ring.

The Royal Bungalows were built high atop some pretty impressive limestone cliffs that overlooked panoramic views of the lake in three, count 'em, three directions. There were six upscale individual apartments, each set into the craggy, windswept bluffs with utter privacy in mind. Hilde Swensen's was at the highest point, overlooking the rooftops of her sister bungalows scattered down the hillside. Far below lay one of the lake's quietest and most coveted coves, its olive green water rippling in the spring breeze and lapping at verdant banks. The view was really something, and Bud and I both admired it as we eased up the blacktop road toward Hilde's hideaway.

A cardinal-red Ford Fusion sat in the driveway, and we pulled up behind it and killed the motor. An Avis license plate was affixed to the rear bumper. We stopped in front of the low-slung, white concrete structure. A really nice place, designed with ultramodern lines and a green metal roof that probably sounded great in rainstorms, and lots of huge plate-glass windows. Extremely sleek, it looked a lot like something you'd see perched over a sunny beach in Malibu. It sat high up, but in a clearing with woods separating it from the bungalows below. The oak trees had just begun to bud out within the last week so the place was not as secluded as it would be in a few more weeks. The dogwoods were blooming everywhere, patches of pristine white in all the emerald hues. In summer the foliage would be thick and green and lush and give the tenant complete privacy.

Bud and I got out of the car. The stillness was striking. We stood with our doors open and looked at the bungalow. Far away we could hear the low, sporadic murmur of traffic on the bridge, and somewhere out on the water, a speedboat buzzed like an angry bumblebee. Otherwise it was unnaturally quiet. The place looked deserted. Slatted white wood shutters closed off every single window. Something cold and unsavory crawled across the floor of my stomach, and I knew what it was. Unease. Fear. My gut was telling me
uh-oh, watch your back, something wicked this way comes.
It's a sixth sense, true, pure instinct, but I'd learned to trust it. At the moment, it was standing on its hind legs and pawing the air like crazy. Visitors to the lake didn't usually close up a place this tight, not in this kind of weather and not with this kind of view.

Bud looked across the roof of the Explorer and said, “You feel it, too, right?”

“Yeah. Big-time.”

“Maybe it's a good thing Bri didn't come up here.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I searched the windows for any sign of life, hoping we were wrong. “Brianna give you a key to this place?”

“No. But she told me Hilde always keeps her doors locked 'cause of some kind of stalker problem a few years back. Said she learned to be careful about things like that.”

“Well, that bodes well for her. Maybe that explains the locked-down shutters.”

Bud and I moved cautiously toward the house. I told you we'd had some pretty bizarre cases lately. We didn't take anything lightly. We didn't trust anybody, anywhere, any time. Nothing surprised us anymore. And maybe that's what this was. Nothing. Yeah, maybe it was quiet because the beauteous Hilde was asleep in her princess bed inside with Vaseline and cucumber slices on top of her eyes. Maybe she always had quiet time when mentally preparing to strut her stuff on a pageant runway. My gut, however, was saying,
Yeah, right, and pigs could fly, too.

I pulled out my Glock when we reached the wood steps that led up to the front door. I like the feel of it against my palm when I feel creeped out, unnerved, and about to be attacked. Bud had his weapon out, too. We were ready. Hopefully, all we'd do is scare the hell out of a sleeping beauty. We climbed to the porch without making a sound and stood on each side of the substantial dark green metal front door. Bud rapped with one knuckle and called out Hilde's name. No answer. Just silence and a rustling noise when a squirrel took off for home in a towering oak tree behind my Explorer, no doubt expecting gunplay. Spring had sprung, all right. So had my nerve endings.

I took the end of my T-shirt and tried the door handle. It turned easily.

Bud said, “Uh-oh. She always locks her doors.”

“Yeah.”

I pushed the door inward and called out her name again. Identified us as sheriff detectives. No answer.

We stepped inside. Bud tried calling her name a couple more times. Nobody answered. Nobody home. We were getting the picture. The living room and kitchen were beyond messy. Clothes were thrown around, and half-empty bottles of Evian littered the tables and chairs and kitchen counter. Cigarette butts overflowed a couple of glass ashtrays. Lots of stuff on the floor.

Bud said, “Most models are slobs at home, you know.”

I didn't know that, but he had a helluva lot more experience with models than I did, so I believed him. We stepped cautiously through the living room. There was a folded newspaper on the bar, the
Kansas City Star
dated six days ago. I picked it up. Hilde Swensen smiled back at me out of a professionally done head shot. She was one beautiful lady, all right; Bri was right about that much. She had a killer smile and was wearing a three-tiered, glittering crown. Her name was below the picture, and the headline above the article read “Miss Spring Time Reigns Supreme.”

“Look, Bud, here's a close-up of her. You didn't tell me she won Miss Spring Time. That's the one held down at the Plaza, right?”

“Oh, yeah, Bri says she wins more than she loses.”

A black patent leather Gucci shoulder bag sat on the table next to the paper. It was standing open, and I saw Hilde's matching black Gucci wallet and key chain inside. There were a couple of photo albums there, too. I didn't touch anything.

“Her purse and keys are here.”

“Maybe she's out on the back deck and didn't hear us come in.”

A short hall led to the rear of the bungalow. There were two bedrooms, each with its own bath. We checked them out and found them clean and untouched. The master suite was a different story. Messy as the front of the house, clothes strewn around, dressers and bedside table littered with cosmetics, hair spray, and hot rollers, curling iron, all the paraphernalia of someone obsessed with their appearance. A big leather rolling suitcase sat open on the floor and fancy floor-length evening dresses were displayed on padded hangers on the back of every door. A one-piece red bathing suit had been tossed on the bed alongside a short black silk kimono. There was a pair of black fringed house slippers beside the bed. The burgundy-and-blue coverlet was flung back nearly off the bed, as if Hilde had gotten up in a hurry.

Bud said, “The place is clear. Back deck, too. Looks like she's not home. Must've gone off with a friend.” He sounded relieved as he opened the French door that led onto the rear deck. Fresh air swirled in and smelled good in the stuffy room.

I walked to the bathroom door. It was closed. I felt the chill of dread as I knocked. I called Hilde's name, but knew she wouldn't answer. Standing to one side and holding my weapon pointed down, I pushed the door ajar a little and darted a quick peek inside. A strong smell of bleach nearly choked me. Bad sign. The bathroom was deserted, but my reflection flashed in a big white-framed mirror on the opposite wall. A second French door led out to what I assumed was the back deck, but burgundy drapes were drawn tightly across it. Identical curtains hid the shower enclosure, but there was a corner Jacuzzi tub designed to enjoy the spectacular view while bathing.

The bathroom was spotless. No towels on the racks; no face cream or hair spray on the sink; no trace of habitation. Weapon still ready in my hand, I moved to the shower enclosure, stood to one side, and jerked back the curtain. The metal rings screeched, but not as loud as I did when I saw what was sitting inside. I backed up as far as I could as fast as I could, until I hit the wall and had to stop. “Bud, in here!”

Oh God, it was Hilde Swensen, all right. The same curly blond hair, the same beautiful features, now waxen and white and wasted in death. She had been posed on the bench at the back of the shower. She had on a black one-piece bathing suit with a Miss Spring Time crimson sash draped diagonally across her chest. It had been stapled to the bare flesh of her left shoulder and right thigh. The three-tiered diamond tiara I'd just seen in the newspaper article was secured with bobby pins in the thick bun piled on top of her head.

Her hands were bound together at the wrist with black electrician's tape, waist high, forcing her fingers to hold on to a large bouquet of wilted red roses and white baby's breath. Their scent was funeral-parlor sweet, the smell thick inside the shower stall. Her large blue eyes stared back at me, wide open and glazed over, a look of shock and fear and horror forever imprinted into their depths. But it was her mouth that brought up the caustic burn at the back of my throat and made me want to gag.

Hilde Swensen's lips were missing, completely cut off, and I stared at her straight, ultra-white, movie star teeth frozen forever in the most horrible, grotesque skeleton's smile that I'd ever seen. Rivulets of blood had poured down her chin and long graceful neck in shiny dark red streaks that ran into the top of her bathing suit, lots of it, which meant she'd still been alive, heart pumping, when her mouth was mutilated. I fixed my gaze on the white rectangular welcome tag stuck on the bare skin of her right shoulder. Someone had left a message on it for us, printed in big box letters with a black Sharpie.

 

SMILE, AND SMILE, AND BE A VILLAIN.

 

The words triggered a memory, from Shakespeare, I thought, but then Bud was there beside me. He sucked in air then sagged against the door frame. “Oh, my God, my God, my God…”

He kept saying it as he backed into the bedroom, and I couldn't say anything, so I swallowed down my revulsion, but it took me a couple of minutes to get hold of my heartbeat. I moved forward, squatted down, and examined the woman the killer had arranged so meticulously on the bench inside the shower stall. It was Hilde Swensen, there was no doubt about it. I examined the floor of the tub for blood evidence. Completely cleaned out with bleach. Damn those CSI shows running nonstop on television with their how-to lessons on getting away with murder. Then I noticed the small pool of water still trapped in the drain hole. I bent closer, examined it, and did not like what I saw.

I leaned back and wiped my hand over my mouth. Bud had returned and calmed down some, and I looked up at him. He was still shaken, tanned face a bit ashen, and I had a feeling that was more now from anger than the initial shock of finding the body. I knew exactly how he felt. And I knew what he was probably thinking. He'd have to tell Brianna that her sister was not out shopping or getting her nails done but stone-cold dead, her mouth cut off, her eyes still filled with unbridled horror. It was happening again, just like it always did, and I felt the rage rise up inside me, too, hard, lethal, all-encompassing.

I set my jaw and got a firm grip on my own nerves, then jerked my cell phone off my belt and hit speed dial for Buckeye Boyd. He was the Canton County coroner and medical examiner and in charge of a crack crime scene team. He picked up on the second ring.

“Buck, it's me.”

“Well, this can't be good, not by the sound of your voice.”

“We need you up here at the Royal ASAP. We got a body.”

“Homicide?”

“Yeah. Another sicko. Worse, you remember Brianna Swensen, Bud's girlfriend? It's her sister, but keep that under wraps because we don't have a positive yet. But I'm ninety-nine percent certain it's her.”

“Oh, jeez, that's awful. Bud there, too?”

“Yeah. How soon can you get here?”

“Ten, fifteen at the most. Everybody's already down here for our staff meeting.”

I flipped my phone shut. Bud kept rubbing his palms over his face. He was still sucking air, steadying himself with some major deep breaths. “This is gonna kill Bri, it's just gonna kill her.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, man, Bri can't ever see Hilde like this. Not with her mouth carved up and all that blood.”

“You wanna stay here with her or go string the tape?”

“I'll stay with her.”

I said, “Smell all that bleach?”

“Yeah.”

“The killer knows how to clean up after himself.”

Bud was in control now and he came up behind me as I leaned down again to look at the water standing at the drain.

“Something's clogging the drain. See it?”

“What the hell is that?”

“I hate to say this, Bud, but I think it's her lips.”

“Oh, God. Shit.”

“Yeah, we better back off and leave things alone, until Buck gets here to process the scene. Let's see if we can find anything out on the deck.”

As I stood up, I took a good look at the black-and-white tiled floor, searching for any trace of blood spatter. My guess was that's where the perp had scrubbed with the bleach, there and in the shower. I found nothing but a floor clean enough to eat off of. Bud jerked open the drapes on the door that led onto the deck, then stepped outside. I could hear him taking some more cleansing gulps of the lake-fresh air, and I followed and did the same thing. The morning sunlight nearly blinded me, and my spring fever and joy of the season was pretty much DOA now. I placed my gaze on the long vista that opened up across the horizon. Far away, I could just make out the glitter and flash of the lake and Nicholas Black's five-star resort, Cedar Bend Lodge, where it shone like a beacon, its myriad windows ablaze in the sun. All around us sat dark green cushioned deck furniture, six chairs, two chaises, and a matching table. Nothing else. No blood. No gore. No murderer's trail.