Lipstick and Lies by Margit Liesche

entrance had been left open. A woman was rolling a pushcart of books over the threshold as we arrived. She lifted the back of the cart, maneuvering the load to turn it. Several books tumbled off. While she bent to retrieve them, I peered inside.
    The rectangular room had floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with rows of books bound in dark leather. I counted four schoolhouse desks arranged in private nooks, and two Queen Anne desks positioned in opposing corners, all with occupants. The heavy drapes dressing the tall windows had been pulled against the ebbing afternoon light. Reading lamps with emerald shades cast warm spectrums of light, enhancing the ambience.
    Having restacked her cart, the librarian began rolling forward again. Coming abreast of us, she glanced pointedly at the glass in Dee’s hand before moving on.
    Dee angled her head toward me. “Rules are rules,” she chimed. “No food or drink inside.” Down the hall, a carved table rested against the wall. She headed for it and I entered the library.
    The crackling of wood burning in a fireplace drew my attention to a Wedgewood mantelpiece at the far end of the room. Near it, a man and a woman stood opposite one another on either side of an ornate antique desk. They were sideways to me, and I could only see their profiles, but I recognized the likeness to the mug shot in Dante’s file immediately. The thick fringe of bangs was a recent change, but it was definitely Kiki.
    The tall man with broad shoulders and strong features across from her was, I guessed V-V. A Continental-cut suit, draped softly over his muscular frame, made a refined contrast to his dark brown hair, worn on the longish side so that it brushed the collar of his shirt in back. He looked sophisticated but a bit rakish.
    The couple was engaged in quiet conversation. Each had a hand on a book lying on the desk’s polished surface. While they talked, the book moved back and forth as though it were a planchette on a Ouija board, guiding their hands not to letters of the alphabet, but to the dominant party’s side of the desk.
    Dee came up beside me. “Kiki?” I nodded to the couple.
    “Uh-huh. And that’s V-V across from her.” She absorbed the scene more fully. “Oh dear, and they don’t look too happy, do they?”
    “There does seem to be some friction.”
    “I’ve been warning her.”
    “Warning her?”
    “Well, warning might be too strong a word. But look—” Dee’s tongue clicked in a tsk. “She’s so pale and tired looking. It worries me.”
    I thought her observation reflected a maternal bent. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, in my view Kiki looked great. “Hmmm…”
    Dee misheard me. “Yes. And him. I’m worried about him, too.”
    “Who, V-V? Why?”
    “Kiki was a free-spirit at one time; these days she’s anything but. She’s so obsessed with getting this Book Faire off the ground it’s all she does, day and night. She’s neglecting her health, her husband—” Dee sighed, focusing on her sister. “They have a suite here. I’ll bet she’s been staying overnight again.”
    I observed the stubborn set of V-V’s jaw. “He doesn’t approve?”
    Dee frowned. “Well, I guess you could say, like the library, he has his rules. And until now Kiki has been a saint in putting up with them…” Dee faltered as her thoughts took a slow turn. “Maybe it’s time she held her ground. A woman should never submit to a man too completely.” Her melancholy tone grew so soft I had to strain to hear her. “Not even a handsome, charming, adoring man.”
    ***
    Dee and I wove past a handful of patrons occupying wing chairs upholstered in shiny brocades and dark velvets. The women, absorbed in their reading, barely looked up.
    Kiki wore a filmy loden-green scarf draped loosely around her neck. One end had been tossed over her shoulder, the other flowed in a soft line down the front of a lavender blouse worn with loose trousers of pewter silk. Above the elegant