prised me.
She was well into her thirties, tall and very thin and al
most plain-looking. Except for her long, thick hair, which was this incredible shade of auburn. (And, I realized with a twinge of jealousy, the color was natural, too.) But it was when Collins began to speak that she seemed totally
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transformed. Her voice was low and husky. And she had this way of turning her complete attention to you and fixing you with these piercing hazel eyes of hers—eyes that an instant earlier you probably wouldn’t even have noticed. I didn’t waste much time before asking how she felt about the part of Hope going to Meredith Foster. She said she was disappointed; maybe, for the first week or so, any
way, even angry about it. ‘‘But I didn’t blame Meredith for what happened. How could I blame her for someone else’s decision?’’ she pointed out. Quite rationally, I thought. Still, that didn’t let her off the hook. ‘‘Would you mind telling me where you were on Monday night between quar
ter to eight and nine o’clock?’’
‘‘Home alone with a book. And it was a lousy one, too.’’
Collins stayed a couple of minutes more without saying much of anything else. And soon afterward Larry Shields poked his head in.
‘‘That wraps it up,’’ he informed me. ‘‘That was the last one—except for me.’’ He came in and set his meaty sixfoot-two-or -three-inch body down opposite me. (And it was with some kind of perverse satisfaction that I noted that, with his oversized frame, Shields’s little chair was as imperiled as mine was.)
I opened with, ‘‘How well did you know Meredith
Foster?’’
‘‘Very well,’’ he said gravely. ‘‘We were going together.’’
It took a few seconds to digest what—to me, at least—
was very interesting news. Then I said, ‘‘How did Lucille Collins feel about the part she’d been promised going to Meredith?’’
‘‘First off, promised isn’t exactly the right word. I’d planned on doing this play for some time, and I mentioned the part of Hope to Lucille quite a while ago. I knew she’d do a fine job.’’ And then with a trace of irony: ‘‘In fact, she is doing a fine job. But at any rate, once I saw Merry, I realized I needed someone younger—someone more like Merry—although I wasn’t thinking of Merry herself at that point. Not consciously, anyway. All I knew was that if I put Lucille in the role, I’d be settling.’’
‘‘You said once you saw Merry. When was that?’’
‘‘It was the end of September. I attended an opening night production of Show Boat. It was at one of those little theaters on the Lower East Side that’s so small and dilapi
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41
dated, it makes this place look like the Shubert.’’ His voice grew animated as he warmed to his subject. ‘‘It was really like amateur night there, too. The actors tried hard, but most of them were very young, and they just weren’t up to their parts. All except Merry.’’
Shields looked down at his hands then. I looked, too. He
was slowly, almost rhythmically, clenching and unclenching his fists. Without stopping, he said quietly, ‘‘I’d give any
thing for five minutes alone with the bastard who did this. Five minutes with him, that’s all I’d need.’’ A moment later, he very deliberately folded his hands in his lap, lifted his head, and told me sheepishly, ‘‘Sorry. I guess I got carried away.’’ Unexpectedly, he forced a grin. And, forced or not, for an instant his ordinary face wasn’t so ordinary after all.
‘‘Don’t apologize. Please. This must be very difficult for you.’’
‘‘It’s hell,’’ he replied simply.
‘‘You said you first saw Meredith in Show Boat, ’’ I prodded.
‘‘Right. She was playing Julie, the second female lead. Merry’s voice wasn’t great, but she really knew how to read a lyric. Mostly, though, I was impressed with the way she delivered her lines—her speaking lines. She even had the dialect down pat; you’d never know she’d been living in England most of her life. In fact, she was so good that I went to see the show again just before it closed.’’
‘‘So you and Meredith met in September?’’
‘‘No. We didn’t even meet that second time—which was at the beginning of November. After the performance, I was on my way backstage when I ran into an old friend, and by the time I broke away, Merry had left the theater. I was disappointed, but I decided it was probably just as well; I was seeing someone else at the time, and I had a feeling Merry could complicate things for me.’’
‘‘And then?’’
‘‘And then, less than a week after that, I went to a cock
tail party. And there was Merry. I broke off with the other woman a couple of days later.’’
‘‘This other woman—would you mind telling me who
she was?’’
Shields hesitated. ‘‘Lucille Collins,’’ he muttered, flushing.
Somehow, I wasn’t at all surprised. Well, it now seemed
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that Ms. Collins had a couple of reasons for not being overly fond of Meredith Foster. I said as much to Shields.
‘‘You’re wrong. Lucille isn’t like that. Besides, by the time I met Merry, things had already started to cool be
tween us.’’
‘‘On your part or hers?’’
The flush deepened. ‘‘Both. We probably would have
split up soon even if Merry hadn’t come into the picture.’’
I wondered, briefly, if that was true. But I realized it was something I’d never know. And, for that matter, Shields and Collins probably wouldn’t, either. Right now, though, it was time for me to wrestle with that question again. It was not easy spitting it out. ‘‘Did you ever notice . . . uh, I mean, does she—Meredith . . . uh, Merry—have any distinguishing marks on her body?’’ (Believe me, practice does not always make perfect.)
‘‘The police asked me the same thing. They asked if I remembered seeing a small mole right next to her navel. But if Merry was the one they spotted that mole on, it must have been very small, because I never noticed it.’’
Then his voice broke as he added huskily, ‘‘God, I wish there was something. At least I’d know.’’
I shook my head, commiserating. Larry Shields truly ap
peared to be suffering, just as Peter was. I reminded myself he was a suspect. In fact, as far as I was concerned, every
one was a suspect—at least for the time being. My client excepted, of course.
‘‘They won’t even let me into the hospital room,’’ Shields fumed. ‘‘I keep trying to change their minds, but a lot of good it does talking to those assholes.’’ Suddenly he stood up. ‘‘I’d better snap out of it,’’ he said. ‘‘I have a rehearsal to direct. So if you’ll excuse me . . .’’
‘‘One more question. How did Collins feel about the part
she wanted going to Meredith? You never did say.’’
‘‘She wasn’t thrilled about it—naturally. But she under
stood. And she certainly didn’t hold it against Merry. Lu
cille’s a pro.’’
‘‘One thing more,’’ I put in hastily. ‘‘Where were you on Monday night between quarter to eight and nine o’clock?’’
‘‘In Brooklyn, having dinner with my mother.’’
‘‘Can anyone verify that?’’ I asked.
‘‘Does my mother count?’’ Shields asked back, almost playfully.
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‘‘I’m afraid not.’’
I walked out of the theater a few minutes later, marveling at how tight-lipped that little group had been. I mean, no one, other than Shields himself, had said a thing about the director’s previous relationship with Lucille Collins (and I had no doubt everyone was aware there’d been one—the
&nbs
p; ater gossip being what it is).
And wasn’t it strange that nobody had mentioned Mere
dith’s involvement with Shields? Or that—in a profession rampant with egos—not one single person had speculated as to this being the real reason she’d wound up with the plum role of Hope?
Chapter 6
All in all, it had been a very tiring day. So at a little after eight-thirty, I took off my makeup, put on my pajamas, and got into my rattiest-looking, most comfortable bathrobe. (That’s one advantage of living alone; there’s no one to care if you look like the wrath of God. As long as you stay away from mirrors, that is.)
I confess that around then I was feeling pretty depressed about what I’d learned from Fielding earlier. (I could forget about that solemn vow I’d made myself to keep my feelings in check this time. I should have known, given my track record, that that wasn’t even a remote possibility.) The truth was, I had to admit, that there was a damned good chance—better than even, I figured—that Mary Ann had been shot before her sister got home. Maybe more than an hour before. And that meant she could have been lying there bleeding on the living room floor for a hell of a long time before EMS rushed her to St. Catherine’s. Which didn’t exactly put the odds of being the survivor in her favor.
But, hey, what did odds mean, anyway? Didn’t I play the
lottery? And what were the odds on that? And how about Publisher’s Clearing House? And that other one, the one Ed McMahon was always hawking? I wouldn’t be plunking
down all that money for tickets and postage if I didn’t believe you could beat the odds. So I was not going to think terrible thoughts. In fact, right now I was not going to think at all.
What I was going to do was plant myself in front of the TV for the entire evening. Cheers would be on soon. And, later, there was L.A. Law. Not a bad night at all to put your brains on hold. But first I thought it might be a good idea to set something up with this Charles Springer—the neighbor who’d discovered the victims. Maybe I could get
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45
him to see me sometime tomorrow. I checked the tele
phone book, and there was a listing for a C. Springer at the twins’ address.
The man who answered the phone sounded hyper. He
spoke in a nasal, high-pitched voice, and the words tumbled out one after the other so quickly I wondered that he had time to breathe. When I told him I was a private investiga
tor and that I was working for Peter Winters, Mary Ann Foster’s fiance´, he said I could come over in about an hour. Now, I’d really been counting on a reprieve that night, but what could I do? P.I.s aren’t exactly on everyone’s ‘‘A’’
list. So if he was willing to meet with me, I wasn’t about to quibble.
I got dressed in record time (for me, anyway), practically jumping into my clothes and then slapping on some makeup and plopping on this wig I have that looks exactly like my own hair only it’s usually a lot easier to reason with. In less than three-quarters of an hour, I was in a taxi heading for West Fifteenth Street.
The twins’ apartment building, with its brand-new hunter
green canopy, white-gloved doorman, and huge, mirrored lobby, looked like it had been transplanted from Sutton Place. The elderly doorman instructed me to go right up; Mr. Springer was expecting me.
‘‘Listen, I’m a private investigator,’’ I told him before heading for the elevator. ‘‘Could we have a little talk when I come down? You were on duty Monday night, weren’t you?’’
‘‘That’s right. You want to know about the shootings?’’
‘‘I just want to check a couple of things with you.’’
‘‘Terrible what happened, wasn’t it? And the two of them
such pretty young girls. And always so pleasant, too. It’s a sorry mess this world of ours has come to, isn’t it?’’
‘‘It sure is,’’ I clucked. ‘‘I should be through upstairs in about half an hour. Okay?’’
‘‘No problem. I’m on till eleven.’’
Charles Springer was a short, thin man in his early thir
ties with a bad complexion, a friendly, if agitated, manner, and just a few strands of hair remaining on his domeshaped little head. He led me from a small foyer, papered in an interesting pink and silver geometric, into a large, elegant living room, which was eclectically furnished with
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striking contemporary pieces and handsome antiques (or very good reproductions; I’m not sure which). The room was done almost entirely in off-white, the major exception being a small turquoise velvet sofa accented with off-white and pink throw pillows. The pink was repeated in most of the soft pastel prints decorating the walls and in a stunning arrangement of silk flowers that was displayed in a contem
porary crystal vase standing atop an antique cherry sideboard.
‘‘What a beautiful room!’’ I exclaimed. I was seated on the turquoise sofa, with Springer sitting on the off-white berge`re at right angles to it.
‘‘Thank you so much,’’ he said, his face lighting up with pleasure. Then he confided, in that rapid-fire way he had,
‘‘I love to decorate. I just wish I could afford more than a studio. A little more space to work with, and I’d really be able to let loose. I wouldn’t need a place anything like the twins’, of course—’’ He broke off abruptly, and the glow was gone. ‘‘How is she? Do you know?’’ he demanded. ‘‘I just called St. Catherine’s a few minutes before you got here, but they said her condition was still critical.’’
‘‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard anything.’’
‘‘I don’t suppose they’ve figured out if it’s Mary Ann or Meredith who . . . who’s in the hospital?’’
‘‘No. It looks like that’ll take a while. I understand you were the one who found them.’’
‘‘Yes. And it was just awful,’’ Springer whispered. ‘‘I haven’t been able to get a night’s sleep since.’’
‘‘I don’t think I’d be able to, either,’’ I told him honestly.
‘‘The police say that the first time you called the apartment it was twenty to eight.’’
‘‘That’s right.’’
‘‘You’re sure of the time?’’
‘‘Oh, yes. I had something in the oven, and it had ten minutes to go.’’ Then he added the clincher: ‘‘You don’t make a mistake with the time when you’re baking a souffle´.’’
I couldn’t argue with that. I realize this may sound im
modest, but two of the extremely few blemishes on my own outstanding culinary record were souffle´-induced. So I accepted Springer’s declaration as gospel.
‘‘There’s no doubt, Mr. Springer, that it was Mary Ann who answered the phone?’’
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47
‘‘No. She told me it was. And, please, call me Chuck.’’
‘‘All right. And I’m Desiree. Did Mary Ann give you any indication there might have been somebody with her when you called?’’
‘‘Oh, no. Just the opposite, really. I said I’d just whipped up a strawberry souffleánd it would be ready in ten mi
nutes, and I asked if she and Meredith would volunteer to be my guinea pigs. You see,’’ he explained, ‘‘I’m expecting company next week, and it’s a new recipe, so I wanted to try it out beforehand.’’
‘‘What did she say?’’
‘‘She told me Meredith wasn’t home yet but that she could be walking in any minute. Then she laughed and she said, ‘And if Merry doesn’t get here on time, the hell with her. I’ll eat her portion, too.’ Those were practically her exact words. She didn’t say, ‘So-and-so is here, and maybe he’ll volunteer, too.’ Well, that certainly didn’t sound to me like there was anybody else in the apartment.’’
It didn’t sound that way to me, either. ‘‘What hap
pened next?’’
‘‘At ten minutes to eight
, I rang the doorbell, souffleín hand. But nobody answered. I really didn’t know what to make of it, but what could I do? You have to understand that I had no reason to think anything dire had happened.’’
Springer was looking at me as though begging for
reassurance.
‘‘No, of course you didn’t,’’ I obliged.
‘‘Anyway, I went back to my own apartment and had some of the souffle´ myself. Naturally, it was flat as a pan
cake by then, but I wasn’t concerned about that; I’d seen that it could rise to magnificent heights. I just wanted to find out how it tasted.’’
‘‘What made you call the Foster apartment again?’’ I asked, trying to move him along.
‘‘I can’t even tell you. It just kept bugging me—Mary Ann’s not answering. I couldn’t understand it, you know?
So after I had the souffleánd a cup of coffee to go with it, I picked up the phone.’’
‘‘It never crossed your mind that something might have suddenly come up and Mary Ann had to run out at the last minute?’’
‘‘Of course. That was the first thing I thought of. But she was expecting me. And, knowing Mary Ann, she wouldn’t
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have gone out without calling me first. Not unless it was a real emergency, anyway.’’
‘‘So you were worried.’’
‘‘Not exactly. At least, not then. I think curious would be more like it. I was just wondering what could have hap
pened. I never dreamed . . .’’ He seemed to shrink from putting the rest of the thought into words.
‘‘You had no reason to suspect anything. None at all,’’ I told him firmly.
Springer gave me a grateful little smile before going on.
‘‘Anyway, after the phone call, I sat down to do some work that I’d brought home from the office, but I just couldn’t concentrate. Who knows? Maybe by then I was getting a little worried. Maybe it was some sort of premonition.’’
‘‘So you went back over. The door was open that time?’’
‘‘Just partially. Six inches maybe. I stood there in the doorway and called out. But nothing. Not a sound. So, without even thinking about what I was doing, I started to walk in. That’s when I saw her—Meredith, the cops say it was. God! She was all covered with blood. . . .’’ He sat there for a moment, recalling the horror. Then he asked softly, almost fearfully, ‘‘Do they have any idea yet who did it?’’
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