Free Lipstick and Lies by Margit Liesche Page B

a bright lawyer,” Connelly scoffed. “Never saw the inside of a cell.”
    Wish I hadn’t.
    Dante continued. “That chapter closed, she began running with a liberal circle, young swells with plenty of means and plenty of free time for throwing it around. The sort of group that, shall we say, was blasé about abiding by rules.”
    My gaze returned to the two toughs flanking Kiki. Purples, I assumed, grimacing. It was one thing to be rebellious, but as the saying went, You are the company you keep.
    “The young Miss Barclay-Bly played nonconformist to the hilt,” Dante continued. “Cigarettes, outlandish clothing, loose talk about free love and fascism…stirring things up wherever she went.”
    “Two oddball marriages, all the dirt that fell out from the subsequent divorces—she kept the local gossip rags in print,” Connelly contributed. “As if she hadn’t taken enough punches, she’s remarried again.”
    Dante dropped the photos onto the thin ream of paperwork, lifting the stack and rapping it against the table, leveling the edges. A few yellowed news clippings had been fastened to the file cover. “The tattle-tale accounts?”
    “Yup.” Dante closed the file. “Our office has maintained periodic reports on her activities since the arrest.”
    I frowned. The folder was very lean. “Okay, so Barclay-Bly was once a free-spirit who hosted parties for gangsters. Now she’s organizing guest speakers at a woman’s social club. What are you getting at? What’s the connection?”
    “It’s what we want you to find out.” Dante removed the Lucky propped behind his ear and tapped it against the folder. “In the mid-Thirties, some of Kiki’s friends were observed attending Bund meetings.”
    “And Kiki went, too? How many times?”
    Connelly shifted his stance. “None that we know of.”
    “What about recent activities or affiliations? Anything suspicious?”
    “Nothing obvious.” Dante wedged the cigarette back on his ear. “But it’s possible, older and wiser, she’s more cautious, knows to keep a low profile.”
    “So you need someone to delve into Barclay-Bly’s current activities. Find their true nature. My second assignment?”
    Dante nodded. “Uh-huh. We’ve arranged for you to stay at the Cosmos Club. We’d like you to talk to the Barclay-Bly ladies, see what you can uncover about their relationship with Buchanan-Dineen, or whether they’re using traditional trappings to hide something else sinister.”
    Jail cell to social club. I was moving up in the world. “Great.” I looked at him. “Did you say Barclay-Bly
ladies?
”
    Connelly smoothed the flat of his hand over his hair. It looked so brittle I half-expected to hear the sound of a crack. “Your tête-ß-tête with our thorny spy raised two other correlations. Kiki Barclay-Bly’s sister, Dierdre, introduced Buchanan-Dineen to her fiancé, Nelson Butler.”
    I nodded, recalling the Countess had admitted as much.
    “In buttoning down arrangements for your stay at the Club,” Connelly added, “we learned that Renner’s wife, Clara, has been a hairdresser there for three years.”
    I gave a toneless whistle. “You’re kidding! The Countess, the Barclay-Bly sisters, Mrs. Renner, they’re all affiliated with the Cosmos Club. And you just pieced this together?”
    Dante’s response was measured. “The investigation has been in place for less than a week. Up until we thought of placing you in jail our focus was on maintaining plant security and surveilling Renner. Now, about
Mrs.
Renner—”
    From the quick profile of Clara Renner that followed, I learned that the Detroit-born hairdresser was an only child, both parents deceased. She and Renner had married about a year ago and, at twenty-three, she was half his age. Recently, she’d been promoted to manager of the club’s salon.
    “The age difference could be the reason he turned to spying,” Connelly observed. “You know, similar to what was driving Blount. The need to