The Girl Is Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mr. Wilson’s, as though she only represented half of the whole the two of them formed. She could’ve been attractive, but the years had softened her figure in a way my own mother had constantly fought against.
    I continued to feign boredom on my bench, flipping through the Archie comic book but not reading what was on the page. My attention was riveted to the apartment building, where the uniform-clad doorman was tipping his hat as a woman exited the revolving door.
    Was it her?
    She asked him something, and he replied in a strong, clear voice, “Six-forty-five, Mrs. Wilson.” She paused in the light leaking from the front windows and wound her watch. Then, with a smile at the man, she continued on her way up the street.
    Bingo! I followed twenty paces behind, splitting my attention between her and the shop windows. If she turned to look back, I’d pause at the nearest display and pretend to examine what it had to offer.
    My ploy wasn’t necessary. She seemed to be in her own little world, moving forward with single-minded purpose to get to her destination. I used the time to examine her. It was a game Mama and I used to play—she would pick a random stranger as we waited for a cab or walked in the park and make me list three things I could tell just by looking at them. Appearances are everything , she would tell me when we stopped playing. Remember that. Mrs. Wilson’s nails were freshly painted. There was cat hair on her coat. Her heels were expensive, but worn. They didn’t strike me as the kind of pumps you donned to see a secret lover.
    But then if she had a lover, she probably wasn’t planning on keeping them on for very long.
    I blushed at the thought. What made me such an expert on s-e-x? I couldn’t even say the word out loud without spelling it.
    Mrs. Wilson turned the corner, then another one. No Waldorf this night. We were headed toward the Plaza Hotel. I held back long enough for her to enter the building. I pretended to chew a wad of gum and swung my arms with the sort of entitled boredom most visitors to this address regularly demonstrated. As I walked into the lobby, I offered the doorman a sneer for his trouble.
    I surveyed the room for Mrs. Wilson. She was already gone.
    How was that possible? I’d only been seconds behind her. Hardly enough time for her to make it into the Palm Court, or one of the other restaurants that fanned off from the main lobby. My gaze landed on the closed powder room door. That’s where she had to be. If she was meeting someone, she would want to freshen up beforehand.
    I sauntered through the door and found her standing before the long row of mirrors, a tube of bright red lip cream in her hand. We both ignored each other as I disappeared into a stall and pretended to do my business.
    When enough time had passed, I flushed the toilet, left the stall, and washed my hands. She had switched from makeup to hair care. She removed her hatpin, peeled off her straw hat, and used her fingers to fluff the slightly matted mess it had left behind. My own reflection danced in the glass. There was a time when I thought I might be pretty—perhaps even on my way to beautiful. Mama had been. With her blond hair and pale eyes, she cut a striking figure no matter what she wore or whom she accompanied. I hadn’t been blessed with her coloring, but I was fortunate enough to not, in the words of Grace’s mother, look too Jewish. I had asked my mother what she meant and she’d laughed it off as the insensitive words of an insensitive woman. But now in the flattering lighting of the Plaza’s powder room, I could see hints of ethnicity. I was growing darker with age, my features slightly coarse, as though all of Mama’s delicacy had vanished when she died.
    Mrs. Wilson’s reflection smiled at me. I tucked my hair behind my ears and smiled back.
    I left her to her work and returned to the lobby, selecting a seat that would give me a good view of her when she finally returned. Instead of