Murder Can Ruin Your Looks

by Selma Eichler

theless. ‘‘At least I hope not. I had him to the doctor’s this morning, and the doctor tells me the infection’s pretty much cleared up.’’ She made a try for optimism. ‘‘Well, let’s wait and see. Maybe he’ll sleep right through until three today.’’

  Then, without any prompting from me—probably be

  cause she figured she might be on borrowed time—the young mother started to talk about her long friendship with the victims. She spoke quietly, often nervously licking her lips and occasionally fighting back tears.

  ‘‘I met them when I was only ten years old,’’ she said.

  ‘‘My father had just been transferred to the American Em

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  bassy over there, and we went to the same school, the twins and I. We got to be really close; we were best friends prac

  tically from the first day we met. Maybe because we had a common bond, you know, being American.’’

  ‘‘How long did you live in London?’’

  ‘‘Until I was fourteen. But we still kept in touch after I moved back here. We wrote each other regularly, and once

  in a while, like on a special occasion, we’d even spring for a phone call. And then, when I was seventeen, my parents gave me a trip to London as a graduation present. I stayed with some friends of the family’s for a month, and I saw Mary Ann and Merry practically every day. It’s funny. Ev

  eryone’s always saying you can never pick up where you left off, but we didn’t have any trouble at all.’’

  ‘‘I’ve been told the twins were very different. I mean, as far as personality.’’

  ‘‘Oh, yes. Mary Ann was very warm and, well, gentle, I guess you’d say. She had a great sense of humor, too. And she was friendly to everyone. Merry was more reserved. Not that she was standoffish,’’ Claire hastily clarified. ‘‘It’s just that she wasn’t quite as outgoing. Merry was the one with the guts and the backbone, though; she’s the one you’d go to if you needed someone on your side. And she was very goal-oriented, too.’’ Claire paused then and smiled sadly, remembering. ‘‘Even as a little girl, Merry wanted to be an actress. And she was really caught up in it. More than caught up, dedicated. Like when she played the lead in Annie at school. I suppose you know the play.’’ She looked at me questioningly.

  ‘‘Oh, sure.’’

  ‘‘Then you know that Annie had a headful of these little

  red curls. Well, at the school, they expected Merry to wear this wig. She tried it on without saying a word. But the next day she went out and got one of those home perm kits and some hair dye, and Mary Ann and I did her hair for her.’’ Claire had a smile now that seemed to cover her entire face. ‘‘The things you do when you’re kids,’’ she remarked, shaking her head wonderingly from side to side.

  ‘‘Anyway, we—Mary Ann and I—cut off all of Merry’s beautiful long hair, and then we gave her this perm—the worst perm you ever saw! It looked like she’d stuck her finger into an electric socket! And that was our best work. The color was what was really not to be believed. It came

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  out bright orange! I got so scared when I took a look that I was out of their house like a shot. I was terrified for days that Mrs. Foster would call and tell my mother what we’d done.’’

  ‘‘And did she?’’ I asked, laughing.

  ‘‘No. But do you want to hear the funniest part? Merry couldn’t have been happier. That’s what I mean about her being dedicated. She never cared one bit about how she looked—as long as she looked right for the part. She still doesn’t. Just a couple of years ago, she was playing Joan of Arc, and off went the hair again. She wrote me that a lot of people even mistook her for a boy that time. But that didn’t bother Merry! Anyway,’’ Claire informed me,

  ‘‘one good thing came out of the Annie business.’’

  ‘‘What was that?’’

  ‘‘They used to play these tricks on me once in a while. I’d think I was with Merry, and it would turn out to be Mary Ann. Or the other way around. They thought that was hilarious, but after a while I didn’t find it so funny. But, of course, with Merry’s hair so different, they couldn’t pull that on me anymore. And by the time her hair grew out, they seemed to have forgotten all about that little game.’’

  ‘‘They were pretty much identical, I gather.’’

  ‘‘Pretty much, but not exactly. Mary Ann’s nose had this

  tiny bump in it. And Merry had a stronger chin, I thought. And there was something different about their eyes, too. But I think the differences were more pronounced once they grew up. Or maybe I just got a little smarter—more perceptive—when I got older. But they were—’’ Suddenly, Claire broke off. ‘‘Oh,’’ she whispered, looking stricken.

  ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  ‘‘Do you realize that all this time I’ve been talking in the past tense . . . about my two closest friends in the world?

  And one of them, at least, is still alive.’’

  ‘‘It’s only natural under the circumstances,’’ I assured her. ‘‘Besides, mostly you’ve been telling me about what happened in your childhood, and that is the past tense.’’ I saw that the girl’s eyes were moist now. Uh-oh, I thought, bracing for a good, long cry. But she surprised me. ‘‘I prom

  ised myself I’d control myself today,’’ she said with an obvi

  ous effort. ‘‘So where were we?’’

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  ‘‘I was about to ask what you could tell me about their brother.’’

  ‘‘Eric? I hardly knew him. He was a lot older than we were; he was already out of the house by the time I moved to London. So I didn’t see very much of him while I was living over there. And I haven’t seen him at all since the twins came back to New York.’’

  ‘‘You do know that there was some trouble between him

  and Meredith.’’

  ‘‘Oh, sure. They had this colossal fight because Merry’s future husband was on drugs.’’

  ‘‘Just what did Meredith say about the fight?’’

  ‘‘Only that Eric tried to break them up and that she was never going to speak to him again. I wasn’t around when it was all going on, of course, so that’s all I know.’’ Then Claire had a thought. ‘‘Listen, have you spoken to Helen Ward?’’

  Now, there was a name I hadn’t even heard yet. ‘‘Who’s Helen Ward?’’

  ‘‘Another friend of Merry’s. An actress. They were in a play together when Merry first moved back here. The play didn’t last very long, but they hit it off right away and I know they kept in contact. Merry wasn’t much of a talker, though, so I wouldn’t count on anything. But it’s always possible she mentioned something to Helen.’’

  ‘‘Do you know how I can get in touch with Helen?’’

  ‘‘I’m pretty sure she lives on the Upper West Side some

  where. In the nineties, I think.’’

  ‘‘Just one more thing,’’ I said—not altogether truthfully.

  ‘‘Have you ever met Larry Shields?’’

  ‘‘Only once, when Merry brought him up here for coffee.

  He seemed like a really nice guy; Merry was pretty crazy about him, too.’’

  ‘‘So I’ve heard. Were you aware they split up for a while?’’

  ‘‘Yes. But I don’t think it lasted a week.’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t happen to know the reason for the split?’’

  Claire shook her head. ‘‘Merry said she couldn’t talk about it, so I didn’t ask any questions.’’

  ‘‘How about Roger Hyer? What can you tell me about him?’’

  Our peaceful little talk was interrupted at that moment by the most ungodly, high-pitched shriek. Claire leaped up

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  as if someone had just put a tack on her chair. ‘‘Excuse me,’’ she called over her shoulder as she ran from the room.
<
br />   In a couple of minutes she was back, carrying this fat, pajama-clad Buddha who was maybe six months old (but then again, maybe not even—my experience with babies being what it is). As young as he was, though, this kid had the smuggest expression on his face.

  ‘‘I’m really not supposed to do this—pick him up when he cries,’’ Claire confessed. She sat down at the table again, wiping away the one or two tears she’d allowed to accumu

  late on her son’s puffy little cheeks. ‘‘But all I can say,’’

  she continued defiantly, ‘‘is let Dr. Fink see what Greggie’s lungs do to his nerves.’’ She scowled malevolently at her firstborn. ‘‘Now where were we?’’ she asked as she began to bounce him up and down on her lap while keeping up a dialogue of widely spaced little clucking sounds.

  ‘‘Roger Hyer,’’ I reminded her.

  ‘‘Right.’’ Then, between bounces and clucks, Claire pretty much restated what I’d already heard from the others.

  ‘‘Did you ever meet Hyer personally?’’

  ‘‘A couple of times. I thought he was a real slimeball, too, but, of course, I never said anything to Mary Ann. Do you think Roger might have had something to do with this?’’

  ‘‘I haven’t got the vaguest idea yet who was responsible. I was hoping that you might.’’

  ‘‘ Me? Oh, no! I still keep expecting to wake up and find that it’s just some terrible nightmare!’’ Giving herself over to the horror of it all, for a brief moment Claire neglected to jiggle the Buddha, and he immediately made himself heard.

  It seemed like a good time for an exit.

  Chapter 15

  Since she was an actress, there was a better than even chance that Helen Ward (the girl Claire Josephs had sug

  gested I talk to) wasn’t working. Also, that I’d be able to reach her at home in the morning. So as soon as I got to the office on Friday, I looked up Ward’s phone number. Then I waited until ten-thirty to call, figuring it was a rea

  sonable hour even for someone in the theater to be up. I figured wrong.

  ‘‘Yes? Hello?’’ said a sleepy female voice, following which there was this terrible racket in my ear signifying a monumental catastrophe at the other end of the receiver. In a moment the girl was back on the line. ‘‘I’m sorry. I dropped the phone,’’ she explained, yawning.

  ‘‘No, I’m sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?’’

  ‘‘That’s okay. I had to get up early today anyway,’’ she said graciously.

  I told her who I was and why I was so anxious to meet with her. When I was through, she asked groggily, ‘‘Uh, just who did you say it was that got shot?’’

  ‘‘Your friend, Meredith Foster, along with her twin sis

  ter.’’ I’m afraid my tone was a little sharp, but, after all, we were talking life and death here.

  ‘‘Meredith Foster?’’

  That’s when it finally dawned on me, quick study that I am. ‘‘This is Helen Ward, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘No. It’s her roommate.’’

  I soon learned that Ward was on location shooting a movie in the middle of the jungle somewhere and that there was absolutely no way I could get in touch with her. (Con

  sidering how my luck was running, it was probably the first job she’d had in months, too.) She’d already been gone five weeks, and, according to the roommate, my guess was as good as any as to when she’d be back. ‘‘To tell you the

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  truth,’’ the girl said, ‘‘I thought she’d be back by now.’’

  After which she confided cattily, ‘‘She doesn’t have much of a part.’’

  ‘‘Well, if you should happen to hear from her, please ask her to call me—any time of the day or night.’’ I provided both my home and office numbers, then added, ‘‘You won’t

  forget, will you? It’s very, very important.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I won’t forget,’’ she replied pleasantly. ‘‘I wrote down the numbers in Helen’s message book. But don’t count on her calling me from over there. She’s been gone all this time, and she hasn’t yet.’’

  ‘‘Well, when she comes home, then, have her get in touch

  with me right away. Will you do that?’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘It’s really vital.’’ (As you’ve no doubt already gathered, I have this tendency to resort to overkill to make a point.)

  ‘‘And thanks very much, Ms. . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Shakira. Just Shakira. You know, like Madonna. And Kenny G.’’

  Kenny G.?

  The Plaza Hotel’s venerable Oak Room, with its dark wood paneling and lovely subdued murals, its comfortable leather armchairs and worn oak plank floors, has a kind of faded and genteel charm you won’t find in any other room in New York. Or anywhere else I’ve ever been to, for that matter. I had to admit I approved of Roger Hyer’s choice. Just from our phone conversation, I swear I could have picked Hyer out of the crowd. But the navy suit with the navy and red polka dot tie did clinch things. A dapper, dark-haired man in his late thirties, he was staring absently at the drink in his hand when I walked over to his table.

  ‘‘You’re—’’

  ‘‘Roger Hyer,’’ he finished for me. ‘‘And you must be Desiree.’’ Then he flashed these large, even teeth that—

  particularly against his George Hamilton suntan—were so startlingly white I practically had to blink.

  Getting to his feet, he came around to hold out my chair

  (with what I thought was an exaggerated politeness), and I realized he was only an inch or two taller than I was in my heels. Which would put him at five-six or maybe five-seven, at most. But he was well built, with a slender yet substantial

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  frame that displayed his expensively cut suit to good advantage.

  The waiter appeared at our table the instant we were both seated. ‘‘You’ll have to drink fast to catch up with me,’’ Hyer told me. ‘‘My second,’’ he added, indicating the empty glass in front of him.

  I asked for a Perrier with a twist of lime, and Hyer or

  dered another Chivas—neat. As soon as were alone again, he said, ‘‘You wouldn’t believe me when I told you I didn’t know anything that could help you.’’ His lips curved in a faint, lopsided smile. ‘‘But it’s your party. Go ahead. What did you want to ask me?’’ There was something really con

  temptuous about that smile. Also, I saw now that Eric Fos

  ter was absolutely right: The man didn’t look you in the eye when he talked to you.

  But I had no intention of letting Hyer’s manner unnerve me. ‘‘You and Mary Ann Foster were engaged for about six months, I hear.’’

  ‘‘That’s right. And I’m sure you also heard we split up months ago—back in August.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I did. But everyone’s given me a different reason for the breakup,’’ I lied.

  ‘‘Then let me enlighten you as to the real reason Miz Foster called it off,’’ Hyer snapped. ‘‘It’s because she was still a child.’’

  I should have known this guy would justify his behavior.

  ‘‘In what way?’’

  It was at this moment that our drinks arrived, and as soon as the waiter walked away, Hyer took a few deep swallows. Then, looking in my general direction, he said bitterly, ‘‘Mary Ann had herself a fit because she found out that I’d been married—never mind that it was years before I even met her!’’

  ‘‘Married twice. And hadn’t told her,’’ I reminded him.

  ‘‘All right, twice, ’’ he conceded, glowering at me.

  ‘‘Where’d you hear about it, anyway, her stuffed-shirt brother? Never mind. Listen, if you can suspend your obvi

  ous damn bias for a minute, it’s possible you’ll even under

  stand why I didn’t tell her.’’

  ‘‘You’re right; I apologize. I had no business prejudging you,’’
I admitted.

  Hyer nodded. ‘‘The fact is,’’ he continued, ‘‘when Mary Ann and I first met, there wasn’t any reason to bring up

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  anything like that; I had no idea it would ever get serious between us. And later, when things did get serious, it didn’t make any sense to ruin things by going into ancient history.

  ‘‘I was married the first time when I was only eighteen years old. Did anyone bother telling you that? Eighteen! A baby! We were divorced two years later. The second time was when I was twenty-seven; that lasted less than a year. There were no children from either marriage, so how could it possibly affect my relationship with Mary Ann?’’

  Hyer stopped talking just long enough to take another healthy swallow of the Chivas. Then he resumed his ratio

  nalization. ‘‘Well, once we were engaged, I figured, why go into it now? What does it have to do with today, with us—

  Mary Ann and me? So I put it behind me. I didn’t think there was much chance she’d ever find out. But if and when she did, there’d be plenty of time for explanations then.’’

  Suddenly there was something vulnerable in Hyer’s face, and the hand reaching for the scotch wasn’t any too steady now. Draining the rest of the drink in one large gulp, he signaled for a refill before saying softly, ‘‘It seems, though, that I underestimated the spitefulness of some people. And I overestimated my fianceé.’’

  I knew it wouldn’t help to point out anything about hon

  esty and trust. Besides, I didn’t want to rub it in. I’m ashamed to admit this, but, much to my own annoyance—

  and notwithstanding my less than terrific opinion of the man—I found myself feeling a little sorry for Hyer right then. (Of course, I didn’t know if he was suffering because he’d lost the woman he loved or because he was just a guy who hated losing.) Anyway, I moved on. ‘‘Someone told Mary Ann about your ex-wives out of spite?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Probably. I’ve made a few enemies in my life.’’

  ‘‘Do you know who it was?’’

  ‘‘No. I wish I did,’’ he said in this low quiet voice that made it sound pretty ominous. Even through the tan, I could see the dark flush that was beginning to spread from his neck to his forehead. ‘‘But whoever it was made sure she heard about it as soon as she set foot in the States.’’