Murder Can Ruin Your Looks

by Selma Eichler

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  Selma Eichler

  smiling, ‘‘is not the sort of establishment to accept Ameri

  can Express.’’

  ‘‘What time did you finish eating?’’

  ‘‘I’m not too certain. I would say about twenty before eight.’’

  ‘‘And then?’’

  ‘‘I returned to the hotel—the Grand Hyatt over on Forty-second Street. I’d had a rather tiring day, and I de

  cided I’d do a bit of reading and go to bed.’’

  ‘‘You got to the hotel a little before eight, then?’’

  ‘‘I would guess it was close to eight-fifteen. I walked over, and I’m an awful dawdler; I stopped and looked in every shop window I passed.’’

  ‘‘Did anyone at the hotel see you when you came in?’’

  ‘‘It appears not. Or so the police say.’’

  ‘‘You had asked Mary Ann to have dinner with you that

  night. Is that right?’’

  ‘‘That’s right. But she’d made previous arrangements. My

  fault. I hadn’t let her know what date I’d be here.’’

  ‘‘Were you angry that she didn’t cancel her plans? After all, you’re not in town that often.’’

  ‘‘She offered to. But I insisted she go ahead and meet with her friend, and we made it lunch on Tuesday instead. To be honest, I wasn’t too disappointed she couldn’t come out with me on Monday. I was a bit under the weather when I got here Sunday—that’s when I called her, Sunday evening—and the way I felt then, I wasn’t at all sure I’d be able to manage food the next day.’’

  I was about to say something when Foster made a point.

  ‘‘Incidentally,’’ he said, ‘‘if I intended to do in both my sisters, as you suggested, I wouldn’t have chosen that night, when I had every reason to expect that Mary Ann would be at dinner with a friend.’’

  I’d have to think about that. But at the moment I couldn’t come up with a response. So I moved on to some

  thing else. ‘‘Could you tell me about your feud with Mere

  dith? You objected to her marriage; was that it?’’

  ‘‘I objected strenuously. Merry was just twenty when she

  began seeing this Garibaldi punk—that was his name: Gene

  Garibaldi.’’ That figured; according to Peter, the guy’s name began with a C or an R. ‘‘He was well in his thirties,’’

  Foster was explaining, ‘‘and heavily into drugs. At the time they met, Merry was studying theater and she’d already

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  been cast in a few small parts on the BBC. Which is quite a coup for a young girl, don’t y’think? At any rate, our parents were still alive then, and they begged her to stop seeing him, to concentrate on her career. Well, Merry made it clear she had no intention of giving up either her career or this Garibaldi. She was quite taken with him. He was

  . . . uh . . . handsome, I guess you’d say,’’ Foster admitted grudgingly, ‘‘and he treated her like a little queen. Natu

  rally, he swore he was quitting the drugs, and Merry be

  lieved him.’’

  ‘‘And did he? Quit, I mean.’’

  ‘‘Not at first, anyway. He may have done later on; I can’t be certain.’’

  ‘‘So you intervened?’’

  ‘‘Yes. But not when I should have—in the beginning, when it might have done some good. I was married and living in Dorking by that time, y’see, so I was pretty re

  moved from things. I was aware of how concerned my fa

  ther and mother were, of course. As a matter of fact, they kept after me to have a talk with her. The girls had always looked up to me, y’know, my being so much older. But at any rate, I was far too wrapped up in my own life to put myself out that much,’’ he confessed, his voice filled with self-loathing. ‘‘So I convinced myself it wouldn’t do any good for me to badger her, too. Eventually, though, my mother persuaded me to go and see what I could do. But by then Merry was hopelessly infatuated with the man.’’

  He looked so despondent that this damned bleeding

  heart of mine went out to him (just as it seemed to be doing with practically everyone I talked to in this case).

  ‘‘How did Meredith react?’’ I made myself ask.

  ‘‘Not surprisingly, she deeply resented my meddling. And

  then, a short while after our talk, she and Garibaldi became engaged, and she cut off all contact between us.’’

  I don’t know what I’d expected—probably that the split between brother and sister would have had a more dra

  matic origin. I found that I was almost disappointed. ‘‘And that’s why she hasn’t spoken to you in all these years?’’

  ‘‘Not quite,’’ Foster admitted, flushing. ‘‘Because of Gari

  baldi’s drug habit, I was terribly afraid for Merry.’’ He looked at me intently. ‘‘Please understand,’’ he said softly,

  ‘‘I know that I was out of line. But what I did, I did for her sake. I was desperate for her to be rid of the man.’’

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  He hesitated for a few seconds, while I sat there waiting anxiously. I think I may even have been holding my breath.

  ‘‘So I went to see him,’’ Foster finished, seeming to cringe at his own words, ‘‘and offered him money if he would get out of Merry’s life.’’

  Well, that certainly made Meredith’s hatred of her brother a little easier to understand! ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘And he told me to go to hell.’’

  ‘‘Garibaldi, I suppose, reported back to Meredith?’’

  Foster nodded. ‘‘And she rang me up and said she would

  never again have anything to do with me.’’ There was a catch in his voice when he added somberly, ‘‘And she never did.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ It was all I could manage with that lump in my throat.

  ‘‘It’s the biggest regret of my life,’’ he murmured, ‘‘what happened between Merry and me. My sisters are my only family, y’know. I’m divorced—close to two years now, it’s been—and Zoe and I never had any children.’’ And then he just sat there for the better part of a minute, staring at nothing, saying nothing. Finally, he seemed to work his way out of the mood. Shifting around in his chair, he glanced over at me. I got the idea he might be getting impatient.

  ‘‘Just one more question,’’ I said before he had a chance to maybe suggest (very politely, of course) that it was time for me to leave. ‘‘How long ago did Meredith and Garibaldi get married?’’

  ‘‘It was that same year; just a couple of months after I went to him about the money—1988, I think it was.’’

  ‘‘His death—was it drug related?’’

  Foster shook his head. ‘‘A short while before he died, I had lunch with Mary Ann. I asked her how Merry was doing—as I always did—and she told me that Garibaldi was gravely ill. An inoperable brain tumor. It was a matter of months at most, she said. And a few months later, he was gone.

  ‘‘You know, this is only the second time I’ve been to New York since my sisters moved here,’’ he informed me.

  ‘‘And the last time I was in town, back in October, I didn’t see as much of Mary Ann as I would have liked. I was taking an extra three days this trip just so we could have a decent visit and so there’d be a chance to meet her fiance´. We planned on having dinner later that week—Mary Ann

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  and Peter and I. And now . . .’’ Turning away from me, Foster reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and took a furtive swipe at his eyes.

  ‘‘Peter and I did have a late supper together one night last week,’’ he continued, facing me again. ‘‘But, of course, it was only the two of us.’’ He swallowed hard. ‘‘Nice chap, that Peter, very nice. We talk every day, y’know. He keeps me advised on how things . . . uh . . . on how th
ings are.’’

  I nodded before saying ‘‘Just one more question’’ one more time. ‘‘What do you know about the man Mary Ann was engaged to?’’ I asked. ‘‘Before Peter, I mean.’’

  ‘‘Roger Hyer?’’

  At last! ‘‘How do you spell that?’’ I pounced.

  Foster spelled the name for me. ‘‘I only met Hyer once,’’

  he went on to say. ‘‘The three of us had tea at the Savoy.’’

  ‘‘What did you think of him?’’

  ‘‘Not very much, I’m afraid. Hyer’s a weasel. He’d been married twice but never mentioned a word about it to Mary Ann. He’s also disgustingly full of himself. I guess I didn’t approve of either of my sisters’ choices.’’ Then he put in hastily, ‘‘Former choices, I should say.’’

  ‘‘What else can you tell me about this Hyer?’’

  ‘‘Only that he has money—he’s an investment counselor and a very successful one, apparently. And I can tell you that he considers himself something of a Don Juan and that he doesn’t look you straight in the eye when he talks to you.’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives, would you?’’ This past week had taught me I couldn’t exactly rely on Peter’s recollection of things.

  ‘‘Let me think for a moment. . . .’’

  ‘‘Was it Hillside, New Jersey?’’

  ‘‘That sounds right.’’

  I silently begged my client’s pardon. But I was

  premature.

  ‘‘No, that wasn’t it,’’ Foster amended a couple of seconds later. ‘‘It wasn’t Hillside; it was Hillsdale. Hillsdale, New Jersey.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Foster; thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.’’ I struggled to my feet. ‘‘I’ve just about run out of questions, you’ll be happy to hear.’’ He started to protest, but I cut off his gallant effort, quickly covering myself with: ‘‘For now, anyway.’’

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  He got the idea. ‘‘Well, if any other questions should occur to you,’’ he said, rising, ‘‘you can ring me either here or at the office.’’ He took a business card from his wallet and wrote down the phone numbers.

  ‘‘You’ll be around for a while, I suppose,’’ I remarked when he held the card out to me. It was an offhand com

  ment, but Foster’s face darkened and something frightening suddenly appeared in his eyes. When he spoke, however, it was in his normal tone of voice.

  ‘‘That’s something you can depend on, Ms. Shapiro,’’ he said. ‘‘Even if the police should allow me to leave—which I very much doubt—I have no intention of going home until I find out which of my sisters is lying in that hospital. And just who the bastard is who put them both where they are today.’’

  Chapter 12

  About two minutes after I walked in the door that night, I called New Jersey information for Roger Hyer’s number. It was a little before nine-thirty.

  The first time I dialed, Hyer’s line was busy. So I figured it might be a good time to touch base with Peter. The conversation was brief. I found out there was no news at the hospital, and he found out there was no news at my end, either.

  Then I tried Hyer again. And got a busy signal again. I kept trying him on and off for the next forty-five minutes. Finally I had the bright idea of checking with the opera

  tor—something that would have occurred to anyone with at least a normal amount of intelligence a good half hour earlier—and was informed that the receiver was off the hook.

  Okay. If that was the case, I might as well relax for a while. I decided to do my relaxing at the kitchen table with that cup of coffee I’d promised myself earlier, accompanied, of course, by what was left of the lemon souffle´—which, by the way, was still so sensational I came close to going into mourning when it was gone.

  At about ten of eleven, I took one last stab at Hyer.

  ‘‘Hello,’’ said a deep, resonant male voice. You can’t imagine how sexy he made that word sound.

  ‘‘Is this Roger Hyer?’’

  ‘‘It is.’’

  I told him who I was and apologized for calling so late, explaining that I’d been trying to reach him for over an hour but that his phone had been off the hook.

  ‘‘I know; sometimes I find that necessary,’’ Hyer re

  sponded with this salacious little chuckle that left no doubt as to his meaning.

  ‘‘Uh, I . . . um . . . suppose you’ve heard about Mary Ann

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  and Meredith Foster being shot,’’ I began. (I hate it when anyone goes out of their way to get me flustered—and succeeds.)

  ‘‘I read about it in the papers,’’ he said matter-of-factly.

  ‘‘Look, let me save you some trouble. I haven’t seen either of them since we—since Mary Ann—called off our

  engagement.’’

  ‘‘I’d still like to come out and talk to you. Maybe—’’

  ‘‘There’s really no point in it,’’ he interrupted. ‘‘There’s absolutely nothing I can tell you.’’

  ‘‘That’s what everyone always thinks, but you’d be sur

  prised at what you know that you don’t—’’

  ‘‘The answer is no,’’ Hyer said decisively. And quite rudely, too.

  I tried appealing to the man’s sense of morality. ‘‘I’m aware that you and Mary Ann didn’t part on the best of terms,’’ I told him, ‘‘but I’m sure you wouldn’t want the person who shot her—maybe even killed her—to get off scot-free.’’

  ‘‘I’d rather that didn’t happen, of course. But to be bru

  tally honest, catching whoever it was who attacked my exfianceé and her sister isn’t really a top priority of mine. In other words, Miz . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Shapiro. Desiree Shapiro.’’

  ‘‘In other words, Miz Desiree Shapiro, since I can’t help you—and you’ll just have to take my word that that’s true—I’m not about to waste my time and yours on a meet

  ing that will, believe me, prove fruitless.’’

  ‘‘Look, Mr. Hyer, since I’m a private investigator, you don’t have to meet with me. But the police are anxious to talk to you, too; in fact, they’ll be getting in touch with you soon.’’ (I had my fingers crossed that they hadn’t already tracked him down and questioned him.) ‘‘And I’m working

  very closely with the homicide detective who’s in charge of this case,’’ I said in this quasi-confidential tone. ‘‘If I’m satisfied you had nothing to do with the shootings, it could make a difference in the way the police view you.’’

  I steeled myself for an explosion, but, unexpectedly, Hyer laughed. ‘‘Well, well,’’ he said, ‘‘it seems that the lady P.I. isn’t above a little blackmail, now, is she?’’

  ‘‘Wait just a—’’

  ‘‘It’s okay,’’ he assured me pleasantly. ‘‘I like your spunk. I happen to have a dinner date in Manhattan Friday eve

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  ning. Suppose I meet you for a drink beforehand. Around seven.’’ He wasn’t asking. ‘‘Let’s make it the Plaza. The Oak Room. I’ll be wearing a navy suit with a navy and red polka dot tie.’’ Before I had a chance to mention my ward

  robe, he concluded with, ‘‘And be on time.’’ Then the phone went dead.

  On Wednesday morning, I called New Delhi Imports

  and, after being transferred four times, was finally put through to a Mr. Selby in personnel who had an annoyingly unctuous manner and talked through his nose. I told Selby I was with Cosgrove, Ltd. (a classy name, I thought), and that I was verifying the employment of a Mr. Eric Foster in connection with a purchase he intended making at our store. I was informed that not only was Mr. Foster a vice president of the firm, but an extremely valued employee who had been with New Delhi for almost fifteen years.

  ‘‘Uh, just what did you say was the nature of the pur

 
; chase that Mr. Foster is contemplating?’’ Selby asked nosily in his oil-slick voice.

  I was sorely tempted to say ‘‘A Concorde jet’’ but settled for ‘‘I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to give out that infor

  mation’’ and clicked off.

  Actually, I could have predicted what I’d find out from New Delhi. Eric Foster was too smart to lie about a thing like his employment. Still, it was something I couldn’t not follow up on, if you know what I mean.

  At about twenty after eleven, I left the office and stopped in at this little grocery store on the next street, which is famous in at least a two-block radius for its homemade chicken soup. (I never promised Collins I’d be the one at home doing the making, did I?) I picked up two quarts of the soup, a quarter of a pound each of roast beef and sliced turkey, half a pound of potato salad, a rye bread with cara

  way seeds, and a half dozen pieces of the most unbelievable apple strudel. After all, even if Collins turned out to be too sick for dessert, there was nothing wrong with my health. I arrived at the actress’s Soho loft at ten of twelve, but that day my being early worked out just fine. Collins lived on the fourth floor, and I had only one way of reaching her: on foot (although by the time I made it up those four long, long flights to her apartment, I was practically on my

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  hands and knees). And I don’t have to tell you that I didn’t break any speed records negotiating all those stairs, do I?

  Especially since I had to sit down and rest three times be

  tween the third and fourth landings.

  As soon as she opened the door, you could tell the woman was not exactly in the pink—except for her nose, that is, which was closer to crimson. Her skin was chalky, her eyes vacant and watery. Even the beautiful auburn hair I’d so shamelessly coveted during our last meeting was stringy and disheveled. And, to add to this lovely picture, she had on a soiled gray flannel robe that was just begging for a spin in the washing machine. All in all, just then, Lucille Collins was not a beautiful thing to behold.

  ‘‘Come on in,’’ she said. This was punctuated by a hack