Murder Can Ruin Your Looks

by Selma Eichler

  acle. But listen, I need for you to promise me something.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘That business about the twin with the chest wound being the one who’s hanging on? That’s not for publication. In fact, I’d be in big trouble if it got out I told you. We don’t want the perp to know which of his victims is still around. The hospital personnel’s under strict orders not to discuss her condition with anyone, and there’s a twentyfour-hour guard in the room to make sure no one gets a close enough look at her to find out.’’

  ‘‘I won’t tell a soul; you have my word.’’

  ‘‘That includes your client, you know. We’ve even had the hospital put her in a special gown to conceal the chest wound.’’

  ‘‘Peter won’t find out about it from me. Hey, you don’t think—’’

  ‘‘No, I don’t. Otherwise we wouldn’t let him camp out in the room like that, even with a man stationed there. Although, to be honest, I’m not too comfortable about let

  ting anyone at all in to see her.’’

  ‘‘But you are allowing it.’’

  32

  Selma Eichler

  ‘‘The doctors tell us that, comatose or not, if the patient is Mary Ann, Winters’s presence could do her a world of good. And if it’s Meredith, his being there might still help some. At any rate, it won’t do any harm. Unless, of course, he’s our killer.’’

  I was about to protest when Fielding smiled. ‘‘Look, if I considered that to be a serious possibility, there’s no way I’d let him within a hundred feet of her,’’ he said. I suppose I must have been frowning then without even realizing it, because Fielding broke into my thoughts.

  ‘‘What?’’ he wanted to know.

  ‘‘This business about their both being shot in the face like that. What do you make of it?’’

  ‘‘I wish I knew. All I can say is that there’s something personal in an act like that. Something very personal.’’

  ‘‘I think so, too.’’

  ‘‘That’s another reason I can’t buy this thing as a bur

  glary. Although I gotta admit the pickings in that apartment would probably not be too shabby. You should see the place.’’

  ‘‘I’d like to,’’ I told him pointedly.

  Fielding ignored the remark, commenting instead that the death of their parents must have left the twins ex

  tremely well off.

  I tried again. ‘‘I’d really like to have a look at the apartment.’’

  ‘‘I’ll think about it—after we’re through with it. But I don’t know why you’re so anxious. I’m telling you every

  thing you could learn by going up there, aren’t I?’’

  I decided to drop it—for a while. ‘‘Who discovered them, anyway?’’

  A neighbor. Man named Charles Springer. He rang their

  doorbell around ten of eight. When no one answered, he couldn’t understand it. Seems he called ten minutes earlier and told Mary Ann he’d be by in a few minutes.’’

  Well, we’d finally gotten around to it! So that’s why Fielding was so sure Mary Ann was the twin in the living room! ‘‘Ohhh, now I get it,’’ I said, mostly to myself. He grinned. ‘‘See? Didn’t I tell you to be patient and I’d explain? Anyway, from Springer’s statement we know it was Mary Ann who came in at seven-thirty. She even said something to Springer on the phone about her sister not being home yet. By the way, Meredith left the theater a

  MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS

  33

  little before seven, and she mentioned to this other woman in the cast who happened to be leaving the theater at the same time that she was going to run up to Macy’s and return a blouse. So I can’t see how she could possibly have made it home earlier than eight o’clock. And that would be cutting it pretty damn close.

  ‘‘At any rate, at some time after eight, Meredith opened the door to the apartment, hung up her coat in the foyer closet, and started to walk into her own living room. She never made it.’’

  Something about the sad, simple way Fielding said that made my stomach constrict and then drop straight down to

  my toes. I could picture Meredith lying there, with Mary Ann only a few yards away, both of them covered with blood, their beautiful faces all smashed up. . . .

  ‘‘Anything wrong, Dez?’’ Fielding asked anxiously. ‘‘You

  don’t look too hot.’’

  ‘‘It’s nothing. I’m fine. Tell me about Springer.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Well, after a while he tried calling the apartment on the phone. No answer. Then, around nine o’clock, for some reason, he went back there again. The door was open

  about six or eight inches. He started to walk in and saw Meredith at the end of the foyer. He rushed back to his own place and dialed nine-one-one.’’

  ‘‘So Mary Ann could have been shot any time between seven-forty and nine,’’ I said, more or less replaying what Fielding had just laid out for me. ‘‘And Meredith had to have been hit sometime after eight.’’

  ‘‘You got it.’’

  ‘‘Which means that when Springer rang the bell at ten of eight,’’ I murmured, thinking aloud, ‘‘either Mary Ann was being restrained at gunpoint or she’d already been shot.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ Fielding concurred. Then, abruptly: ‘‘Okay, now you know what I know, and, according to that clock in back of you, it’s twenty after one already. So let’s get the check and get the hell out of here.’’

  I decided, in view of Tim’s being so forthcoming with me, that I had to share what I’d learned from Peter. ‘‘Hold on just a few more minutes. I am about to give you some leads,’’ I informed him, trying to sound like Lady Bountiful.

  ‘‘Did you know,’’ I asked, ‘‘that one of the other women

  34

  Selma Eichler

  in Meredith’s show was jealous of her? Seems the other woman was promised the part that went to Meredith.’’

  ‘‘That would be Lucille Collins,’’ Fielding said, a little smugly, I thought.

  I tried again. ‘‘Did you also know Meredith and her brother didn’t get along?’’

  ‘‘Yup. Foster contacted us the day after the murder. He had a lunch date with Mary Ann set up for Tuesday, and she was supposed to call him in the morning to confirm. When he didn’t hear from her, he telephoned her store, but no one answered. He finally went to lunch by himself, and after he left the restaurant he stopped at a newsstand. And there were these pictures of his sisters plastered on the front page of the Post. I can’t even figure out how they got ahold of them.’’

  ‘‘So he called the police?’’

  ‘‘As soon as he saw the paper. Anyhow, that’s what he claims.’’

  ‘‘What did he say about the feud with Meredith?’’

  ‘‘The man volunteered that he and his sister hadn’t spo

  ken in years because he tried to interfere when she was going to marry this drug addict—the guy she eventually married anyway. He—Foster—is taking this thing pretty badly; seems to be really busted up over it.’’

  ‘‘You haven’t let him see his sister in the hospital?’’

  ‘‘Just the one time. When we were through questioning him, he pleaded with us to let him go up there. So Walt and I went over with him.’’

  ‘‘Apparently, he couldn’t help with the identification.’’

  ‘‘C’mon, Dez. The woman’s face—what’s left of it, any

  way—is all bandaged up.’’

  ‘‘I wasn’t thinking about his recognizing her,’’ I coun

  tered. ‘‘I was thinking maybe he could give you some familytype information. Like one sister’s having a birthmark or a mole or something.’’ As soon as I said it, I was reminded of the question I’d had so much trouble putting to Peter. It must have showed.

  ‘‘We asked him about that. But he didn’t know a thing. And what’s with you, anyhow? You’re red as a beet.’’

  I didn’t care t
o explain. ‘‘Any problem with Foster about wanting to leave the country?’’

  ‘‘None. In fact, he voluntarily turned over his passport.

  MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS

  35

  Says he has no intention of going home until he finds out what’s what with his sisters.’’

  I could see from the direction of his gaze that Fielding was checking the wall clock behind me again. ‘‘Jeez, it’s one-thirty,’’ he announced, confirming my thoughts. ‘‘ Some of us gotta get back to work—even if you high-priced P.I.s can keep your own hours.’’

  He was unsuccessfully attempting to signal the waiter when I gave it one last shot. ‘‘I suppose you’re aware that Mary Ann was engaged once—before Peter, I mean—and that it ended very badly.’’

  ‘‘Now, that I didn’t know.’’

  I relayed the meager information my client had given me, and when I was through, Fielding said, ‘‘Looks like we’ve got another suspect, doesn’t it? Or we will once we can pin a name on this guy.’’

  I left Tim that day feeling somewhat gratified. While I’d been on the receiving end through most of our lunch, I’d finally been able to come up with a piece of information for him. Maybe it wasn’t all that much, but, as I learned a long time ago, it’s important to have something on the credit side of the ledger.

  Chapter 5

  From the coffee shop, I took a cab to Greenwich Village. Finding the Berkeley Theater was an adventure in itself. I don’t know if you’re familiar with that area, but it’s like a maze. It’s not unusual to find a street breaking off at an intersection and then turning up a few blocks north or south of where it was before. Compounding the problem was the fact that my young driver, who was Indian or Paki

  stani or some Middle Eastern nationality, spoke almost no English. I guess the really amazing thing is that we made it to the Village at all.

  We must have circled the same five or six blocks for fifteen minutes, with me instructing Ahmed (that’s what the license said) to stop and ask directions at least half a dozen times and him saying ‘‘Sure, lady,’’ every time and then tossing a quick, beatific smile over his shoulders as he con

  tinued to zip up and down the same damned streets. Fi

  nally, just as I’d more or less made up my mind to get out and see if I could find the place on foot, we stopped for a traffic light alongside another taxi.

  Well, it was worth a try.

  I rolled down my window, sticking my head out so far that most of the rest of me was hanging outside the cab, too. ‘‘Do you know where the Berkeley Theater is?’’ I yelled.

  The light was changing. And it’s a rare New York taxi driver who, sans passengers, will waste much time being helpful. ‘‘Two blocks mmft, ’’ he shouted before zooming off in a cloud of gas fumes. I wasn’t sure whether that last word was ‘‘up,’’ ‘‘down,’’ ‘‘north,’’ ‘‘south,’’ or what. But the finger he dangled out of the window had been pointing left when he said whatever it was he said.

  ‘‘Did you hear that?’’ I asked Ahmed.

  ‘‘Sure, lady,’’ he said, smiling. Just before turning right.

  MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS

  37

  I told him to pull over. He gave me another of those beaming smiles of his, said, ‘‘Sure, lady’’ again, made one more turn, and—astonishingly—we were right in front of the Berkeley Theater.

  I paid the outrageous amount on the meter (and resented

  it like hell, expense account or no expense account). I even added what I thought was a generous tip—under the cir

  cumstances, that is. Just as I was leaving the cab, Smiley gave me one last, blinding smile. ‘‘It was a true pleasure driving you, lady,’’ he said in flawless English. ‘‘And please to have a lovely day.’’

  The Berkeley was a small theater—I don’t think there were more than a hundred seats—and rehearsal was in full swing when I got there. I spotted a man seated in the mid

  dle of about the tenth row, so I tiptoed down the aisle and entered the row behind him. I leaned over, tapped him on the shoulder, and very quietly explained who I was. He responded with a long, loud snore.

  ‘‘Hey, you shouldn’t be in here!’’ someone shouted at me from the stage, as everyone else up there stopped in their tracks and turned to stare. ‘‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’’

  Now, you might think that, being a P.I. for so long, I’d be used to getting thrown out of places by this time. Well, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. I was feeling pretty uncomfortable right about then. Nevertheless, I marched purposefully up to the stage and even managed to speak with all the authority and composure you’d expect from a confident, in-control, Sam Spade type of investigator. ‘‘I’d like to talk to the cast about Meredith Foster; my name’s Desiree Shapiro,’’ I said, addressing the large, sandy-haired man who had so unequivocally requested my departure. ‘‘It won’t take long,’’ I assured him, waving my license at him. He bent down and reached over the footlights to accept it, then quickly returned it to me.

  ‘‘The police have already questioned the entire com

  pany,’’ he informed me, not unkindly, ‘‘and I’m sure we’ve all told them everything we know. Which I’m afraid isn’t much.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you have, too, but I’ve got some additional questions.’’ I could see a look of apology begin to form on the well-lived-in, fortyish face, so I quickly intercepted it.

  38

  Selma Eichler

  ‘‘It’s very important. And we’re all interested in the same thing, aren’t we? Making sure this murderous slime is caught.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ the man agreed with a sigh. ‘‘C’mon in back. You can use my office.’’

  ‘‘I guess I should introduce myself,’’ he said when he was leading me backstage. ‘‘I’m Larry Shields; I’m directing this play.’’ He showed me into a room so tiny it could barely contain its sparse furnishings. Sharing the extremely cramped quarters were a smallish, badly scarred desk, which was piled unbelievably high with papers of every sort, and a pair of identical and extremely rickety straightbacked chairs. ‘‘Have a seat,’’ Shields said, indicating the chair nearer the door. Then he lifted the other chair from behind the desk, placing it a couple of feet from where I now sat nervously shifting my buns and praying that my own chair would not let me down. (And I’m talking liter

  ally.) ‘‘I’ll have the company come in one at a time; I as

  sume that’s what you want,’’ Shields told me.

  ‘‘Thanks. I’d appreciate it.’’

  From the first five people to enter what I now regarded as my interrogation room, I discovered that everyone liked Meredith Foster. Of course, she didn’t really socialize much with the other cast members, I was told. But that was be

  cause she was so committed to her craft. She was always sitting there studying her lines whenever she had even a few minutes’ free time, her fellow thespians said admiringly. As for Lucille Collins originally having been promised Meredith’s role, no one seemed to know a thing about that. Okay. So who took over the part after the shootings? I wanted to know.

  We-e-ll, it was reluctantly conceded, Lucille was playing Hope now. However, a suggestion from me that there was some ill-feeling between the two actresses, that even Mere

  dith thought Collins resented her, was met with firm deni

  als, a couple of them pretty impassioned. Everyone, I was informed again and again, liked Meredith Foster.

  Then Tara Wilde walked in. Small and dark, with huge brown eyes and a totally ingenuous manner, she couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. I immediately pegged the young actress as my best hope.

  ‘‘Someone mentioned that Lucille Collins was all set for

  MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS

  39

  the part of Hope before Meredith came along,’’ I said, not even bothering with foreplay.

  ‘‘I never
heard that,’’ the girl responded, eyeing me warily.

  ‘‘From what I understand, it was a pretty good part, so it would—’’

  ‘‘ Pretty good? Are you kidding? Any actress would kill for a part like that!’’ Tara’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘‘Oh!

  I didn’t mean it like that! I would never . . . Lucille would never—’’

  I interrupted quickly. ‘‘Oh, I don’t think either of you would, either. Still, if what I heard about Lucille’s losing out is true, it would be understandable if she’d been a little jealous of Meredith, don’t you agree?’’

  ‘‘Lucille liked Meredith just fine,’’ Tara retorted. And then she added, almost as if she were parroting the words,

  ‘‘ Everyone liked Meredith.’’

  I can’t tell you how fed up I was with that tune. Also, I decided that a little shock therapy could conceivably do some good here. ‘‘Not everyone, ’’ I reminded her in a voice dripping with irony. ‘‘Someone disliked Meredith Foster enough to shoot off her face. So if there’s anything you can tell me—’’

  ‘‘But there isn’t!’’ Tara protested, her improbably large eyes growing even larger and her voice rising sharply. ‘‘If there was, don’t you think I would?’’

  When she rushed out of the office moments later, she was almost in tears. And I was furious with myself, con

  vinced that if I’d just pushed the right buttons, I could have gotten her to open up. But as it was, the only thing I learned from my meeting with Tara Wilde was how it must

  feel to kick a puppy.

  Two other people came and left after that, including the show’s snoring producer, who was still no more than semi

  conscious. Then Lucille Collins put in an appearance. I hadn’t exactly formed a mental picture of the woman—

  not that I was aware of, anyway. Still, what I saw sur