Oh.
I very carefully avoided looking at Doris, but I knew without looking that she would be wearing a little triumphant smirk behind her mirror at that moment. Obviously she had been brought forward to be awarded the prize for the most original costume, which was all she’d needed to make her unbearable for weeks to come.
All she’d needed, but not all she’d get. What were we eight Lucifers there for, if not to be jointly — and quite properly — awarded prizes for the least original costume? It would take me months to live this down, months.
My forebodings were correct. Mama announced that the prizewinner for the most original costume was “the young lady who came as everybody else!” Doris stepped up on the platform, bowed prettily to the burst of applause, and accepted her prize, a little brooch-watch that would have made a nice addendum to our haul.
And then it was our turn, we eight scarlet fiends. Sheepishly, we trooped up onto the bandstand to get our prizes: blank identification bracelets.
I felt foolish, of course, standing there above the crowd, being hailed and applauded for my lack of originality while Doris looked on, but a minute later I felt even more foolish as I began to hear the word the crowd was shouting at us, over and over again:
“Unmask! Unmask!”
Well, I didn’t get all the way to the door, but at least in the confusion Doris managed to get away, and if I know Doris she’s already plotting some way to break me out of here. I don’t know what her plan is yet, but I know one thing about it.
It’ll be original.
The Sweetest Man in the World
I adjusted my hair in the hall mirror before opening the door. My hair was gray, and piled neatly on top of my head. I smoothed my skirt, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
The man in the hallway was thirtyish, well-dressed, quietly handsome, and carrying a briefcase. He was also somewhat taken aback to see me. He glanced again at the apartment number on the door, looked back at me, and said, “Excuse, me, I’m looking for Miss Diane Wilson.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Do come in.”
He gazed past me uncertainly, hesitating on the doorstep, saying, “Is she in?”
“I’m Diane Wilson,” I said.
He blinked. “You’re Diane Wilson?”
“Yes, I am.”
“The Diane Wilson who worked for Mr. Edward Cunningham?”
“Yes, indeed.” I made a sad face. “Such a tragic thing,” I said. “He was the sweetest man in the world, Mr. Cunningham was.”
He cleared his throat, and I could see him struggling to regain his composure. “I see,” he said. “Well, uh — well. Miss Wilson, my name is Eraser, Kenneth Eraser. I represent Transcontinental Insurance Association.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I have all the insurance I need, thank you.”
“No, no,” he said. “I beg your pardon, I’m not here to sell insurance. I’m an investigator for the company.”
“Oh, they all say that,” I said, “and then when they get inside they do want to sell something. I remember one young man from an encyclopedia company — he swore up and down he was just taking a survey, and he no sooner—”
“Miss Wilson,” Fraser said determinedly, “I am definitely not a salesman. I am not here to discuss your insurance with you, I am here to discuss Mr. Cunningham’s insurance.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said. “I simply handled the paperwork in Mr. Cunningham’s real estate office. His private business affairs he took care of himself.”
“Miss Wilson, I—” He stopped, and looked up and down the hallway. “Do we have to speak out here?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t know that there’s anything for us to talk about.” I said. I admit I was enjoying this.
“Miss Wilson, there is something for us to talk about.” He put down the briefcase and took out his wallet. “Here,” he said, “Here’s my identification.”
I looked at the laminated card. It was very official and very complex and included Fraser’s photograph, looking open-mouthed and stupid.
Fraser said, “I will not try to sell you insurance, nor will I ask you any details about Mr. Cunningham’s handling of his private business affairs. That’s a promise. Now, may I come in?”
It seemed time to stop playing games with him; after all, I didn’t want him getting mad at me. He might go poking around too far, just out of spite. So I stepped back and said, “Very well then, young man, you may come in. But I’ll hold you to that promise.”
We went into the living room and I motioned at the sofa, saying, “Do sit down.”
“Thank you.” But he didn’t seem to like the sofa when he sat on it, possibly because of the clear plastic cover it had over it.
“My nieces come by from time to time,” I said, “that’s why I have those plastic covers on all the furniture. You know how children can be.”
“Of course,” he said. He looked around, and I think the entire living room depressed him, not just the plastic cover on the sofa.
Well, it was understandable. The living room was a natural consequence of Miss Diane Wilson’s personality, with its plastic slipcovers, the doilies on all the tiny tables, the little plants in ceramic frogs, the windows with Venetian blinds and curtains and drapes, the general air of overcrowded neatness. Something like the house Mrs. Muskrat has in all those children’s stories.
I pretended not to notice his discomfort. I sat down on the chair that matched the sofa, adjusted my apron and skirt over my knees, and said, “Very well, Mr. Fraser. I’m ready to listen.”
He opened his briefcase on his lap, looked at me over it, and said, “This may come as something of a shock to you, Miss Wilson. I don’t know if you were aware of the extent of Mr. Cunningham’s policy holdings with us.”
“I already told you, Mr. Fraser, that I—”
“Yes, of course,” he said hastily. “I wasn’t asking, I was getting ready to tell you myself. Mr. Cunningham had three policies with us of various types, all of which automatically became due when he died.”
“Bless his memory,” I said.
“Yes. Naturally. At any rate, the total on these three policies comes to one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Gracious!”
“With double indemnity for accidental death, of course,” he went on, “the total payable is two hundred fifty thousand dollars. That is, one quarter of a million dollars.”
“Dear me!” I said. “I would never have guessed.”
Fraser looked carefully at me. “And you are the sole beneficiary,” he said.
I smiled blankly at him, as though waiting for him to go on, then permitted my expression to show that the import of his words was gradually coming home to me. Slowly I sank back into the chair. My hand went to my throat, to the bit of lace around the collar of my dress.
“Me?” I whispered. “Oh, Mr. Fraser, you must be joking!”
“Not a bit,” he said. “Mr. Cunningham changed his beneficiary just one month ago, switching from his wife to you.”
“I can’t believe it,” I whispered.
“Nevertheless, it is true. And since Mr. Cunningham did die an accidental death, burning up in his real estate office, and since such a large amount of money was involved, the routine is to send an investigator around, just to be sure everything’s all right.”
“Oh,” I said. I was allowing myself to recover. I said, “That’s why you were so surprised when you saw me.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Frankly,” he said, “yes.”