‘‘Did you tell her why you hadn’t said anything to her before?’’
‘‘Put it this way: I tried to. But she let me have it with both barrels. Threw a two-and-a-half-carat ring in my face!
No matter what I said, all she’d say was that I lied to her.
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Which is a lie in itself. I never lied about having been mar
ried; I just didn’t volunteer the information.’’ He picked up his drink and rolled the glass around in his hands. ‘‘Mary Ann,’’ he muttered, ‘‘was hardly the most understanding woman in the world. Or the most forgiving.’’
‘‘Was that the last time you saw her—when she threw the ring at you?’’
‘‘More or less.’’
‘‘Which means?’’
‘‘Well, I called her half a dozen times after that, and she kept hanging up on me. But I still felt I had to give it one last try. So early one morning I drove into New York and parked in front of her building, waiting for her to come out. I sat there for over two hours until she finally showed. But the minute she spotted me, she jumped into a cab and took off.’’ It was time for another swig of the scotch. Then Hyer said, ‘‘I ask you, is that any way for a grown woman to act?’’
I refrained from telling him no, that that was the action of a naive young girl who expected the man she was plan
ning to marry to play it straight with her.
‘‘Do you know she wouldn’t even move in with me when
she came to the States?’’ Hyer demanded, working up steam. ‘‘Insisted on living in New York with her sister until we got married. Some crap about not wanting people to talk. Incredible, isn’t it, in this day and age! She was such a damn little prig she wouldn’t even make love with the lights on, for crying out loud! To tell the truth, when I think about it now, I’m wondering what I ever saw in an immature little kid like that.’’
‘‘The time you drove into the city to talk to her—when was that?’’
‘‘The end of August.’’
‘‘I gather you were pretty upset when she broke it off.’’
‘‘I won’t deny it. I was crazy about her, and I took it hard—until I realized how infantile she was. And once I realized that . . . well, I haven’t exactly been lonesome for company since then. I found out there are plenty of women out there who are a little more grown-up. And, I might add, a lot more giving.’’ If there’d been any question as to what Hyer meant by that, his smarmy grin made it clear. I must be just pure, unadulterated mush, I decided, to have allowed myself to feel any sympathy at all for a sleaze
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like this. I tried to keep my aversion to the man from creep
ing into my voice. ‘‘When did you learn that Mary Ann had gotten engaged again?’’
There was total silence. Then Hyer, looking stunned, said quietly, ‘‘She got engaged again?’’ (Was it my imagination, or did his tan actually fade for a moment or two there?) I nodded.
‘‘Didn’t take her very long, did it? Who’s the lucky guy?’’
he asked sardonically, at the same time signaling the waiter for still another refill.
‘‘A casting director for an advertising agency here in New York.’’
‘‘When were they engaged?’’
‘‘Just a few weeks before she was shot. You didn’t know
about it?’’
‘‘Would I be asking if I did?’’
‘‘Look, just for my records, I’d appreciate your telling me where you were the night of the murder.’’
‘‘I don’t have to answer that, you know; you’re not the police.’’ But Hyer’s tone was a lot less argumentative than his words would indicate. I guess the news (assuming it was news) had knocked a little of the attitude out of him.
‘‘That’s true,’’ I agreed. ‘‘But the police will be con
tacting you any day now to ask you the same question. And if I’m satisfied you—’’
‘‘Don’t start that again,’’ he groused, picking up his fifth glass of scotch—or was it his sixth?—which had just now been unobtrusively placed in front of him. I was amazed at how unaffected he seemed to be by the alcohol he’d been consuming in such impressive quantities. Even his speech was clear. ‘‘What night was that, anyway?’’ he was asking.
‘‘Monday. February tenth.’’
He screwed up his face and, pressing his left palm against his temple, sat there staring intently into the drink he was holding in his right hand. It was as though he were gazing into a crystal ball for the answer.
Oh, come on, I wanted to say—but didn’t. You knew I was going to ask you this, and you know very well where you were that night.
‘‘I just remembered,’’ Hyer told me at last, a self-satisfied expression on his face. ‘‘That’s the weekend I was in Ver
mont. I didn’t get back until almost eleven Monday morn
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ing, and I stayed at work a little later than usual that night to catch up. Until a few minutes past seven, I guess it was.’’
‘‘Was anyone with you?’’
‘‘No. Everyone else had left at least a half hour earlier.’’
‘‘Any phone calls? Anything that can help confirm you were there?’’
‘‘No. Not as far as I remember, anyway.’’ Then, impa
tiently: ‘‘But is this necessary? I can’t really be a suspect. It wouldn’t make sense for me to suddenly try and kill Mary Ann after all these months.’’ He came close to actu
ally looking me in the eye. ‘‘Use your head. What motive could I possibly have?’’
‘‘Could be you’d just heard she was engaged to another man,’’ I speculated.
‘‘I didn’t have any idea Mary Ann was seeing anyone else until you told me a few minutes ago,’’ he informed me testily. ‘‘Besides, if you think I’ve been pining away for her all this time, you haven’t listened to one damn thing I’ve been telling you.’’
I wasn’t through with my questions yet, so I wanted to get things back on a friendlier basis. ‘‘Look,’’ I responded in the most placating voice I own, ‘‘I’ve been asking every
one who knew the twins the same kind of things I’m asking you. As a matter of fact, between the two of us, I don’t even think Mary Ann was the target; I think she just hap
pened to be there when the killer came to pay Meredith a visit. But I have to cover everything anyway, for my rec—’’
‘‘Okay, okay. But let’s get this over with, huh? I do have a date tonight.’’ He checked his watch. ‘‘Ten of eight!
Christ! I’m supposed to be all the way across town by eight!’’
‘‘Why don’t you give the lady a call and tell her you’ll be a few minutes late?’’
‘‘That’s not necessary. She won’t mind waiting for me.’’
I refused to let that get to me. ‘‘Well, we’re almost through here,’’ I informed him pleasantly. ‘‘You were just about to say where you went after work.’’
‘‘Was I?’’ Another of those nasty smiles of his. Then:
‘‘All right. When I left the office, I stopped off for a quick bite at Burger King, or maybe it was McDonald’s or Roy Rogers, for all I know. Anyway, it was one of those fast food joints. And don’t ask me if anyone there would re
member me.’’
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I took his advice. ‘‘Where did you go afterward?’’
‘‘To this bar in town—the Screaming Red Eagle. Burgers
make me thirsty.’’
‘‘What time was that?’’
‘‘Maybe eight. Or even a little before. And I didn’t leave until twelve-thirty, when the place closed. Look, why don’t you talk to Carl? He’s the bartender there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he remembers; the guy’s got a phenomenal memory. Now, if I’m excus
ed . . .’’
With that, Hyer stood up and motioned to the waiter.
‘‘The lady would like the check,’’ he announced when the man hurried over. Then he bent down and said slyly in the vicinity of my ear, ‘‘I told you it was your party.’’
When he walked away, I was happy to see I’d been wrong; the liquor had had an effect on him. He was defi
nitely listing to one side.
This was one night, I thought smugly, that Roger Hyer would not find it necessary to take the phone off the hook. Chapter 16
I slept until almost ten Saturday morning. Before I even had my coffee, I phoned Peter and left a message on his machine. ‘‘I haven’t talked to you in a few days, and I was anxious to know how everything is,’’ I informed the ma
chine. ‘‘Also, I wanted to give you an update. But don’t expect much,’’ I added quickly. ‘‘Anyway, call me when you get a chance.’’
As soon as I hung up, I plugged in the coffee and fixed myself some breakfast. When I was finished, I typed up the notes I’d made the night before. And then I read over all my notes on the case—and I had a fairly hefty folder by now. I was pretty discouraged when I was through. I’d learned a few little things, of course. But nothing that re
ally mattered.
The telephone interrupted my thoughts—or, more accu
rately, my lack of them.
‘‘Desiree? It’s Peter. I just called the apartment, and I got your message.’’ The voice was dull, almost a monotone. There wasn’t even a trace of his recent optimism.
‘‘What’s wrong, Peter?’’ I asked, a little fearful of what he might be about to tell me.
‘‘Nothing. Not really.’’
‘‘But?’’
‘‘But, well, sometimes it just gets to me.’’
‘‘Listen, Peter,’’ I said gently, ‘‘the doctors told you—’’
‘‘Yeah, I know what the doctors told me. But there doesn’t seem to be any change at all.’’
‘‘Well, it’s—’’ I began.
‘‘You know what the worst of it is, though?’’ he went on, caught up in his own thoughts. ‘‘Not knowing how to talk to her.’’
‘‘What do you—’’
He wasn’t even listening. ‘‘The thing is,’’ he said misera
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bly, ‘‘I’m hoping that on some level she can hear me. But, as much as I don’t want to think about it, I’ve got to accept the possibility that the woman I’m talking to could be Mer
edith.’’ His voice grew sharper now, more intense, honed by his pain and frustration. ‘‘That even restricts what I can say to her, don’t you see? It’s not even right to tell her I love her. So most of the time I just sit there holding her hand and telling her that she has to get better, that every
one’s praying for her.’’ He choked up before confiding softly, ‘‘But if it’s Mary Ann, that’s not what she wants to hear.’’ A pause. ‘‘And, God knows, it isn’t what I want to say to her.’’
Well, what could I say to Peter? Fortunately, I didn’t get the chance to come up with something entirely meaningless and inappropriate.
‘‘I’m acting like a dumb, self-pitying wimp this morning, aren’t I?’’ he put in with an embarrassed little laugh. ‘‘And you called me in the first place, didn’t you? What did you want to tell me?’’
Now I was the one who was embarrassed. ‘‘I just wanted
to check in with you, that’s all. I’m afraid I don’t have a whole lot to report, though. I wish I did. Anyway, here’s what’s been happening. . . .’’
I gave him a brief synopsis of what had transpired since our last talk. But it all sounded so flimsy, so nothing to my own ears that I just couldn’t leave things like that. ‘‘I know there still isn’t anything we can hang our hats on,’’ I con
ceded, ‘‘but don’t worry. I promise you that before too much longer you’ll know for sure whether the girl in St. Catherine’s is Mary Ann.’’
‘‘Thanks, Desiree,’’ he murmured. And, a moment later,
‘‘Thanks,’’ he said again. ‘‘Uh, the police don’t have any idea yet who was responsible, do they?’’
‘‘No, not yet. Not as far as I know. But whoever it was won’t be getting away with it. You have my word on that, too.’’
I wasn’t aware until several minutes after the phone call was over that I’d finally admitted to myself—and out loud—that I was actively hunting for the killer. And, in spite of our agreement to the contrary, even Peter didn’t seem surprised.
Maybe, like everyone else, he knew from the beginning that it just wasn’t possible to handle things any other way.
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*
*
*
Well, that bit of bravado I’d displayed on the phone had
resulted in my putting even more pressure on myself. I’d actually promised to have some answers soon. Wishing passionately that I’d ripped my tongue out be
fore Peter’s call, I went back over my notes again. And again. But I still wasn’t able to make a whole lot out of them. Either there wasn’t anything important in there—or I didn’t recognize that there was anything important in there, which was a lot worse.
And just how frustrated was I by the end of my second reread? So frustrated that I actually decided to engage in a little physical activity to unload some of my angst. And since I consider even a brisk walk a little too exotic for me, I settled on cleaning my apartment. (At least I didn’t have to go outside to do that.)
Of course, with Charmaine, my phantom cleaning
woman, a no-show again that Saturday, there wasn’t a soul to stand in the way of my ambition. (And in case you’re wondering why I don’t just fire her, it’s because whenever Charmaine does deign to come to work, I’m always so grateful I forget that I ever made up my mind to get rid of her.) Anyway, that day I was actually glad to stand in for her.
I dragged half a dozen assorted cleansers out of the cabi
net, after which I got out the broom, the mop, the squee
gee, the brushes, the rags and my new vacuum with its four separate—and totally useless—attachments. Then, com
pletely ignoring the fact that I’d turned the apartment in
side out the week before, I tore through the place like a dynamo—scrubbing and polishing and dusting and sweep
ing and mopping and vacuuming. You wouldn’t believe how enthusiastically I tackled all those nasty little jobs I usually try not to even think about.
When I was through, I’d surpassed even the previous week’s efforts, and I had this tremendous sense of accom
plishment. The apartment looked so . . . so clean. On the downside, though, I could barely make it over to the sofa to sit down. I had a seven o’clock appointment for dinner and a movie with my neighbor, Barbara Gleason, but that was over three hours away. And I wasn’t so decrepit that I wouldn’t bounce back after I had a couple of minutes to catch my breath. Come to think of it, maybe I’d even throw
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a few things in the washing machine downstairs later. In the meantime, I’d just sit here and relax for a little while. . . . The doorbell prodded me into consciousness. I looked around. The room was dark now. For a minute or so, I was
fogbound; then I remembered my sudden, draining spurt of domesticity. Switching on the lamp next to the sofa, I went to the door. I had to stand on tiptoe to see out of the peephole. And what I saw was Barbara Gleason all bundled up in her coat, her hand on the buzzer, a very agitated expression on her long, thin face.
‘‘You really had me worried!’’ she scolded when I let her in. ‘‘I’ve been ringing and ringing. I thought you might be dead or something.’’ She took in my attire—this ugly print thing that’s at least a hundred years old and that I hate for anyone to see me in even when I’m just going out to the incinerat
or. ‘‘You don’t plan on wearing that tonight!’’ she said, which was very perceptive of her.
‘‘Of course not,’’ I told her indignantly. ‘‘What time is it, anyway?’’
‘‘Five of.’’
‘‘Five of what?’’
‘‘Seven. Five of seven.’’
I couldn’t believe it! ‘‘God! I’m sorry! I fell asleep on the sofa. I must have slept for hours!’’
‘‘Well, we can have dinner and make the late show—it goes on at ten-thirty. That is, if you don’t spend forever getting dressed.’’
‘‘Listen, would it be more convenient for you if we put off the movie till tomorrow night?’’ I asked hopefully, not exactly loving the idea of going out at that point.
‘‘I told this woman I work with that I couldn’t have din
ner with her tonight because I’d already made plans with you.’’
What could I say?
Barbara went back to her own apartment, and I franti
cally went about getting ready. It was another fast shower, another slapdash makeup job, and another intense—but, of
necessity, brief—battle with my hair. I was at Barbara’s door in less than an hour.
‘‘You look like a raccoon,’’ were her first words when she came out in the hall to join me. ‘‘Better fix your eye makeup in the cab,’’ she told me in that decisive way she has. (Barbara doesn’t really talk to you—she mandates.
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Which I always put down to an occupational hazard; she teaches third grade.)
We went to a seafood restaurant in midtown, not far from the movie theater. I was really primed for the shrimp scampi, but Barbara was aghast. ‘‘For God’s sake! Do you have any idea how much cholesterol there is in scampi?
And the calories! You know, Dez, I don’t like to say any
thing . . .’’ She said it anyway. ‘‘But you should really do something about your weight. It’s a shame you’ve allowed yourself to get so heavy—especially since you have such a pretty face.’’ (Have you ever noticed that all heavy women have one thing in common? I mean, you could look like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, but if you’re overweight, everyone else in this skinny world we live in insists that you’ve got ‘‘ such a pretty face.’’)
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