Free Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories by Mary Higgins Clark

face was covered with chalk—no, it was a beauty mask.
    It wasn’t a nightmare. It had happened. Alexandra was dead. “No,no, no,” Janice murmured. She looked up. Mike was sitting on a chair next to the bed. “Who?” she demanded, anger in her voice.
    â€œJanice, we don’t know yet. But I believe the detectives who were here last night will find some answers for us.”
    â€œWhere is Alexandra’s body?”
    â€œThe medical examiner took it.”
    â€œThey’ll do an autopsy, won’t they?”
    â€œI’m afraid that’s necessary.” Mike was tempted to say, “Try not to think about it,” but did not. Of course she was going to think about it. Of course she was going to grieve for her sister.
    As she had promised, Emma Cooper had arrived to make breakfast. She could be heard moving around in the kitchen. The living room was in perfect order, except for the armchair that had replaced the one where Alexandra’s body was found. The police had taken it as evidence.
    Emma had explained that to Mike last night. “It looked so empty here without that chair where . . .” She did not finish the sentence. “I brought in one from the dining room.”
    Mike opened Janice’s suitcase and took out her warm bathrobe. He realized that she was still wearing exactly the same dress that Alexandra had been wearing when she was murdered, that it was bound to be a fresh shock for her. He helped her to slip it off then replace it with her robe.
    It was like dressing a child. She stood mutely as he tied the sash around her waist and put her bedroom slippers on her feet. Then, his arm around her, they went into the kitchen, where Emma had the table set and an omelet bubbling in the pan.
    The comforting scent of brewing coffee welcomed them as they sat down. “I hope you had as good a sleep as you could get,” Emma said.
    â€œYes, I did,” Janice murmured, her voice composed but filled with sadness. They ate silently, grateful for the food but still overwhelmed by what had happened only hours ago.
    After breakfast they went back to the bedroom, showered and dressed. At ten-thirty Twaddle phoned. “The autopsy has been completed,” he said. “I will pick you up at two-thirty and take you to the Medical Examiner’s Office.”
    As the hours passed, Mike could see that Janice was on the verge of losing the fragile composure she had managed to display. By the time the detectives arrived, silent tears were running down her cheeks. In the car on the way over, Twaddle asked only one question. “Did your sister always wear a wig?”
    Startled at the question, Janice said, “I know she has a collection of wigs. She wrote to me about them. She said that they were great for when the weather was bad and her own hair got too curly.”
    â€œI see.”
    They did not speak again until they got out of the car in front of the grim-looking building on East 30th Street that was the Medical Examiner’s Office. They walked through the sterile lobby and were taken to the morgue. Mike felt Janice begin to tremble as they approached a gurney with the outline of a body visible beneath a sheet.
    Taking care to be certain that Michael Broad was holding his wife tightly, Twaddle lifted the sheet from the victim’s face. He had expected anything from an outpouring of grief to watching Janice crumple in a faint. He had not expected to hear a shriek and then hysterical sobs of relief as Janice screamed, “THAT’S NOT MY SISTER. THAT’S NOT MY SISTER!”
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    For a moment Mike and the two detectives thought that Janice was in denial, but then through her sobs they could make out what she was saying. “Alexandra has natural blonde hair. It’s as long as the wigs she wears. I don’t know who this is. I don’t know who it is. But it isn’t Alexandra. Thank God,