She recognized the black-and-white photograph immediately. In it, she wore a bathing costume, black, and had her hands lifted behind her head, like she was sunbathing at Coney Island, even though it had been taken on the roof of the Lincoln Arcade building. Her arms were bare, her legs exposed from mid-thigh down. The ad, hawking the latest in bathing costumes, had run in the back of a magazine. Kitty had never permitted Lillian to do photography sessions for ads—she considered it unseemly—but when one of the lesser-known photographers had approached Lillian in the lobby of the Lincoln Arcade building that first day she’d gone out seeking work, the lure of a quick paycheck had been too tempting to pass up.
Mr. Watkins must have seen it in one of his wife’s magazines and cut it out. The thought of him staring down at it, studying the lines of her shoulders and the curves of her knees, made her feel sick all over again.
“I don’t know why he’d have that.”
“If this is some kind of love triangle, and you had any knowledge that Mr. Watkins was going to murder his wife, it’s better for you to tell me now.”
A love triangle? How could she prove that something didn’t exist? “There’s nothing.” Even to her own ears, the denial came across as feeble.
“We’ll need to bring you in to ask you some more questions.”
The earlier excitement of a few months rent-free evaporated. This man was headed in the entirely wrong direction. “I’m just a tenant, like all the other tenants. Mr. Watkins imagined things in his head, probably. I never gave any impression that I was interested in him.”
He patted the pocket of his jacket. “The note tells me otherwise.”
“I was just trying to put him off politely, it’s simply a misunderstanding.”
“The other tenants tell me you are an artists’ model. I imagine you come upon a number of similar misunderstandings in your line of work.”
She drew back. “There’s nothing sordid about my line of work. I’m no different from you, earning a day’s wage.”
“I highly doubt that.”
She had to figure out a way to reach him, to show that she wasn’t a low-class pocket twister. “I’m going to be a film actress as well.”
The police officer raised his eyebrows, impressed in spite of himself. Silent films were all the rage these days. “Hollywood?”
“Exactly. This time next year I’ll probably be in pictures. I have letters here to prove it.” She got up and rummaged through the pile of bills and papers on the sideboard. “Here. A producer wants to meet me, for an audition for his next film. So you see, I had no need to mess about with Mr. Watkins. I’m a career girl.”
He studied the top letter, written on letterhead from the movie studio. Lillian knew the most important sentence by heart: It would be my pleasure to speak with you about a role in my next venture, if you ever find yourself in sunny Southern California.
“You wanna go to California and get famous?” He handed it back to her. “Well, in the meantime, you’ll have to settle for infamous, caught up in a scandal like this. Your Hollywood letter doesn’t prove anything, other than the fact that you’ve got a lot of pen pals. You’ll have to come down to the station.”
She needed time to think. “May I freshen up first?”
He gave a reluctant nod, and she turned and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door with a quiet click behind her.
The papers would go mad with the story of the murder. Throw “Angelica” into the mix, and the legitimate reputation that she was trying to rebuild would be ruined. Never mind it might scuttle any interest from the film producer.
There was no time to waste. She grabbed a change of clothes and stuffed them into a leather duffel bag. The producer’s letters she tucked at the very bottom, taking care that they didn’t wrinkle. As quietly as she could, she opened the window—the wood frame squeaked with age—and ducked out onto the fire escape. In a flash, she was gone.
Chapter Two
New York City, 1966
Veronica rose out of a foggy sleep in an unfamiliar room, awakened by a scream. She bolted upright, only to realize that wasn’t a scream but a siren, just not the sort she was used to. In London, the police cars made a sound that reminded her of an off-key donkey, one that was slightly apologetic for disturbing the peace. In New York, the wails cut through the air like a mourner’s keening.
She squinted at the clock on the hotel nightstand through sleepy eyes.
Nine o’clock.
Not good. That only gave her a half hour to get ready for what was possibly the most important photo shoot of her modeling career. To have come all this way and muck it up from the start—that simply couldn’t happen. She scrambled out of her nightgown and pulled on black cigarette pants with a white tee shirt. In the bathroom, she washed off the mascara and eyeliner that she hadn’t bothered about last night. Her skin was mottled, and a pimple threatened on her right cheek.
She was a mess, and it was all her own fault for not leaving the party sooner. When she’d heard that the photographer of this week’s shoot had invited everyone involved to his penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side for a “get-to-know-you get-together,” she’d been thrilled. Veronica was the least-experienced model in the group, and she might have downed a few too many glasses of wine to make up for it. Each one made her feel a little bolder, a little funnier, although for the most part she was happy to retreat to the terrace, where she stared out at the city, amazed that she was here. Inside, the party raged on, the photographer and his friends fawning over the other models in the carpeted sunken living room. A few of the men got up to dance to the Monkees’ latest hit, their movements jerky and mechanical, as if powered by a circuit board that was not up to code.
It was only the first evening, she told herself. By the end of the week, she’d be part of the gang, and then she’d head back to London with a terrific job under her belt and the promise of a few smashing photos that she’d put at the very front of her portfolio. When a potential client turned to that page, she’d give an indifferent shrug and say, “Oh, right, that was shot by Barnaby Stone last winter in New York. For Vogue.”
At forty American dollars an hour for two shoots, she’d also have almost four hundred pounds to deposit in her bank account. With everything she’d saved over the past several months from her modeling work, that would be enough to free her sister, Polly, from that dodgy Kent House and bring her home.
With dread, she took out the rollers that she’d haphazardly placed around her head before going to bed. It would have been better if she hadn’t bothered, as only the right half of her head had set correctly. She stuck her head under the bathtub faucet to rewet it, then combed it straight. It was the best she could do, under the circumstances.
Her hair had certainly drawn attention at the party last night, as it couldn’t have differed more from the long, straight tresses of the other girls. Veronica’s thick bangs, cut in a straight line almost to her ears, were her “defining” feature, according to her agent back in London. The back was almost an afterthought, hitting midway on her neck.
It hadn’t been the look that Veronica had been going for when she cut a photo out of Rave magazine and showed it to her mother. “What, you’re going to pay someone two quid to do that?” her mother, Trish, had said. “Let me.”
Veronica had felt guilty at the thought of spending that much money on herself, so she’d sat in the kitchen chair, let Trish put a tea towel around her neck to catch the bits, and closed her eyes, hoping for the best.
The model in the photo had thick bangs along her forehead with the rest long. But Trish cut the bangs too deeply at the sides, and then flubbed the trim at the back, so that by the time she was finished, Veronica looked like she had a mop on her head, the same cut she’d had back when she and Polly were five and their mother used an upside-down cereal bowl as a guide.