Lipstick and Lies by Margit Liesche Read Free Book Online

select inmates was not the only privilege she’d been granted. Jewelry of any sort was taboo in jail—the Hole’s property clerk had collected Liberty’s bracelet from me—yet she was twisting a divine diamond and ruby ring. In a flight of fancy, I imagined she was uneasy because she’d fallen for my cover and thought the fiery band vulnerable.
    The ring-turning stopped. “The name of your boss, Mrs. Snodgrass, seems familiar. By chance, might she be a member of a women’s club? The Cosmos Club, perhaps?”
    The porridge I had managed to get down sat like a brick. I didn’t know a Mrs. Snodgrass; the name was a random pick. “Hmm…no, Countess. Far as I know, my Mrs. Snodgrass is not a club member anywhere. May I call you Countess, by the way?”
    Her eyes brightened and her lips curled in pleasure. “Yes, certainly please. The news reporters have made a mockery out of my using the title. But it is mine to use. It goes back to my great-grandfather, you see…” As quickly as it had appeared the spark left. “Ahh, but that is another story. One not for now, I think.”
    A melancholy silence followed. I moved to fill it. “I’ve never met a charm consultant before. What exactly do you cover in your lectures?”
    The topic turned out to be far broader than I expected and the morning’s urn of coffee had been drained before she at last concluded her musings.
    “How do you get invited to speak at clubs?”
And why would anyone want to sit through one of your lectures?
I nearly added, instead observing, “For example, to the place you mentioned earlier. The Cosmos Club, wasn’t it?”
    “The club’s Enrichment Program committee chair, Kiki, ehm, Miss Barclay-Bly, is a dear friend. It was she, Miss Barclay-Bly, who invited me in to speak. The audiences were
fah-
bulously appreciative. I was asked to return several times.” She sent me a significant glance meant to remind me of her illustrious past, adding, “It was Kiki’s sister, Miss Deirdre Barclay-Bly, who introduced me to my fiancé.” She began twisting her bejeweled ring again and her mind seemed to drift away.
    Leaving the Countess to her thoughts, I coaxed a few additional facts about their professions from Irina and Billie.
    Irina was a maid, employed by a custodial agency. The placements varied but she preferred steady work, like the position she had once held in a grand home with lovely people. She had lost the job, she explained, after too many no-shows, the absences due to injuries inflicted by her former boyfriend. Acne was not responsible for the scars on her face; they were cigarette burns. The bump on her nose was the result of one of the ex-beau’s beatings. Ex because he was dead. Irina had killed him. Shot him straight through the heart in the midst of his drunken rage. “It was either him or me,” was how she put it.
    For Billie’s part, life in jail was better than facing her pimp, who by now would have heard about her plan to change careers. Billie wanted to be a performer. Fed up with hooking, she wanted to sing or dance or act. It didn’t matter which, she liked to do it all. And thanks to a loyal customer, a jazz club owner who offered her a start as an attendant in his joint’s powder room, she had nearly snagged a break. Bad luck rarely comes at a good time. In need of funds to buy the uniform required for the job, Billie had solicited a john who turned out to be a cop, the turn of events chucking her off the path to performing and, once again, landing her in jail.
    The Countess, having belabored the topic of life as a lecturer, skirted discussion of her secondary career as a spy after confirming that I, like everyone else, had already read the newspaper accounts of “the misunderstanding.” Instead, she launched into her complaints about how the FBI had thwarted her and her “girls,” attempts to obtain legal representation. “The situation is unjust,” she declared.
    My view wasn’t solicited, and I didn’t give