I wanted to clue Barbara in to the fact that there’s life after size ten. Still, my cholesterol was 286 the last time it was checked. Besides, why get bitchy; I liked the woman. Okay. So sometimes she was a little grating—and that night she was really outdoing herself—but she was also interest
ing and intelligent. Plus, ever since she moved next door to me a few months back, I’d felt beholden to her. You see, the walls in my building are paper-thin. And the previ
ous tenants in 4A were two no-talent, piano-playing idiots who had been driving me crazy for years. The truth is, I was so delighted when Barbara replaced them, I was practi
cally ready to function as her handmaiden.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I wound up con
vincing myself to have the poached salmon with dill sauce. And it really wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t the scampi, either. We finished our dinner in ample time to make the tenthirty showing of Beauty and the Beast, which was abso
lutely the most charming movie I’d seen in years. I came out of the theater dabbing at my eyes. Barbara laughed at me.
‘‘Now, that was a nice movie if you’re under twelve,’’
she commented dryly when we were going home in the cab.
‘‘I have no idea why I wanted to see it.’’
‘‘I loved it,’’ I countered.
‘‘How old are you, Desiree?’’ I could feel the flush rap
idly coloring my face. Barbara didn’t miss it, either. ‘‘All right. Never mind, if you’re so sensitive about it. I’m forty
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three, and I outgrew that kind of thing years ago. I find it very surprising that you didn’t.’’
‘‘Don’t be such a cynic; it was a beautiful love story,’’
I protested.
‘‘It was a cartoon, for Christ’s sake!’’
Well, I just couldn’t understand how anyone could not like Beauty and the Beast. But I told Barbara that, of course, she was entitled to her opinion. Which, to be hon
est, isn’t what I thought at all. But maybe a lot of my intolerance had to do with the scampi.
Chapter 17
On Sunday, I met Ellen for brunch at a little restaurant in the forties that’s about halfway between her apartment and mine.
I thought she looked very chic in her brown pants, white
turtleneck, and Harris tweed jacket. In fact, I thought she was having an exceptionally Hepburnish—as in Audrey—
day. She seemed to be in good spirits, too.
We had mimosas and then Ellen ordered the apple
crepes, while I chose the eggs Benedict, which is one of my very favorite things (and which, that morning, offered the added
satisfaction
of
defying
Barbara
Gleason’s
admonitions).
By tacit agreement, we postponed our discussion of the crime until after we’d eaten. In the meantime, I told Ellen about Beauty and the Beast, and then she talked about her job at Macy’s, sounding a little more optimistic than usual about her prospects at the store. After that, she provided me with an update on her parents, who’d been living in Florida for the past four or five years. I was more than half expecting that any minute she’d ask if I’d spoken to Will Fitzgerald, but his name never came up. Which was good. I didn’t want Ellen to even think about that insensitive slob. It wasn’t until we were having coffee that she brought up the case. ‘‘Have you made any progress yet?’’
‘‘None,’’ I told her glumly. ‘‘I have no more idea now which of those girls survived than I did that first day Peter came to see me.’’
‘‘Oh, you’ll find out,’’ she assured me blithely. ‘‘It just takes a little time, that’s all.’’
‘‘I hope you’re right.’’ I would be one very happy P.I. if I had the same confidence in me that Ellen does.
‘‘I am; you’ll see. Not that I’m exactly thrilled that you even got involved in this thing,’’ she reminded me.
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I gave her what I intended to be an intimidating look.
‘‘Well, I’m not, ’’ she grumbled. It took a full two seconds before she asked (and with what seemed to me was a cer
tain amount of eagerness, too), ‘‘Anyway, have you got any suspects?’’
‘‘Now, that’s the one thing I do have.’’
I proceeded to fill her in on Eric Foster’s feud with his sister. After that, I told her about Larry Shields and his argument with Meredith. ‘‘I’m still trying to find out what that one was about,’’ I said. ‘‘And then there’s Lucille Col
lins. She had a small part in the new play Meredith was in, but it seems she lost this really terrific part in the show to Meredith. And besides that, Collins was Shields’s girlfriend before Meredith came along.’’
‘‘So you think it was Meredith the killer was after?’’
‘‘Not necessarily. There’s at least one person I know of who had a grudge against Mary Ann—Roger Hyer, her exfiance´. She broke off with him not too long before she met Peter.’’
‘‘When was that?’’
‘‘The breakup? In August. But her engagement could have set him off.’’
‘‘He knew about the engagement?’’
‘‘He says he didn’t.’’
‘‘It doesn’t sound like you believe him.’’
I hunched my shoulders. ‘‘Right now, I don’t believe anyone.’’
‘‘Have you questioned them all yet?’’
‘‘I have. And so far I don’t see where any one of them looks guiltier than the next one. But I also haven’t been able to eliminate anybody, either. Eric—he’s the brother—
and Lucille Collins don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder. Roger Hyer claims to have been in a bar in New Jersey that night—I’ll be driving out there to check it out in the next day or two. And Larry Shields says he was in Brooklyn having dinner with his mother.’’
‘‘What does his mother say?’’
‘‘I didn’t bother to ask. Let me put it this way: Under those circumstances, what would your mother say?’’
Ellen giggled. It was a giggle that was vintage Ellen.
‘‘The same thing his would, I’ll bet.’’ Then: ‘‘Do you really think their brother would have waited all this time to kill
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Meredith? And why would he have wanted to kill Mary Ann, anyway?’’
‘‘He more or less put those same questions to me. The answer is: I don’t know. But there’s another angle to this thing we haven’t even talked about yet.’’
‘‘I know.’’
I was sure she didn’t. ‘‘ What do you know?’’
‘‘It’s the way they were both . . . ugh . . . where they were both . . . ugh . . . shot, isn’t it?’’ she finally managed to get out. They don’t come much more squeamish than my niece.
‘‘That wasn’t what I was going to say. Although it’s the thing that bothers me the most about this case. I mean, why in God’s name would anyone want to do a horrendous
thing like that? They were both shot in the torso first, you know, and afterward the perp stood over them and deliber
ately destroyed their faces.’’
Ellen shivered. ‘‘It sounds like someone really had it in for them, doesn’t it?’’ she said softly.
‘‘ Both of them?’’
She pondered that. But only briefly. ‘‘Maybe the mur
derer hated the one sister so much he couldn’t even look at the same face on the other sister.’’
‘‘Maybe,’’ I agreed without much conviction. It was really pretty far-fetched. Still, if what we had here was a crime of passion, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. ‘‘I hadn’t considered that,’’ I admitted.
Ellen looked delighted. ‘‘Or,’’ she went on, fi
guring she was on a roll, ‘‘whoever did it might have had two different motives, one for killing Meredith and another for killing Mary Ann. And one of those motives is something no one’s
even come up with.’’ In deference to my sensibilities and also because of that inexplicable faith of hers, she hurriedly added, ‘‘Yet.’’
Now, this theory I wasn’t quite ready to buy. But I didn’t have to tell Ellen that. ‘‘Mmmm,’’ I responded vaguely.
‘‘Oh,’’ Ellen said, suddenly remembering, ‘‘I think I in
terrupted you before, didn’t I? You were going to talk about something else, and I kind of sidetracked you.’’
‘‘I was, wasn’t I? But I have no idea what I had in mind.’’
‘‘You mentioned something about there being another angle to the case.’’
I drew a blank for a second or two. And then it came back to me. ‘‘Money,’’ I told her.
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‘‘Money?’’ Ellen parroted.
‘‘Listen,’’ I said, ‘‘judging from the way the twins lived, they weren’t exactly paupers. Their parents had been killed in a car crash, and it seems they were left pretty well-fixed. The apartment alone set them back a million and a half.’’
Ellen made this weird sound, which I realized (since the same sound occasionally comes out of my own mouth) was
a truly pathetic attempt at a whistle. ‘‘And who gets all that if they die?’’ she wanted to know.
‘‘Well, if neither of them made a will, the brother, apparently.’’
‘‘But wouldn’t he have inherited from his parents, too?’’
‘‘Most likely. But some people never have enough money.’’ Ellen is probably the only person living in the twentieth century who would have to have that pointed out to her. ‘‘Of course, if there’s a will involved, it could change everything. That’s something else I’ve got to find out about.’’
By that time we were on our third cup of coffee. ‘‘You know what I think?’’ Ellen asked. She looked at me expectantly.
I didn’t let her down. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘I think,’’ she stated with conviction, ‘‘that if we could find out why they were shot in the . . . you know . . . we’d know who shot them.’’
I couldn’t argue with that.
Chapter 18
The instant my head hit the pillow that night, my mind went into overdrive. I kept thinking and thinking about my conversation with Ellen. It’s possible there was something in that crime of passion business, I decided. The only trou
ble was I just couldn’t seem to get anywhere with it. Until I suddenly remembered what Claire Josephs told me. The twins liked to fool around and switch identities when they were kids, she’d said. Well, suppose, for some reason, that Monday evening Mary Ann had pulled that childhood prank of theirs one last, fatal time. Even if the girls didn’t look exactly alike anymore, there was still a remarkable resemblance. And if Mary Ann had said she was Meredith, would the perp have bothered examining her features? And
who knows how good the lighting was in that place any
how? (Which reminded me, I was going to get Fielding to let me into that apartment if it killed me. Or him.) I visualized the story line playing out. . . .
The killer—a faceless, sexless figure—goes to the Foster apartment. Mary Ann, home alone, pretends to the visitor that she’s her sister. I could picture the two of them sitting in the living room and talking for a few minutes. Then Mary Ann gets to her feet (maybe because Chuck Springer
is ringing the doorbell). And—before she ever has a chance to say, ‘‘Ha-ha, fooled you!’’—the perp, still under the im
pression she’s Meredith, takes aim and fires at her. Now I could see her on the floor, her shadowy attacker standing over her. And that’s when he (or she) gets a really good look and realizes that it’s not Meredith who’s lying there but her twin. He makes up his mind that he’s not going to leave until he does what he came there for. So he waits around until the real Meredith comes home. So far, so good. But why blast the girls in the face like that?
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Well, where Meredith was concerned, I finally had a plausible answer. (Not necessarily correct, you understand, or even probable—but plausible.) Assuming that what we had here was a crime of passion, I didn’t see it as too off the wall for the murderer to want to destroy his intended victim’s face.
I was still stymied, though, as to why he’d deliberately shoot the wrong victim in the face. It took a good fifteen minutes’ worth of tossing and turn
ing and a few healthy punches to the pillow before I came up with something that would let me off the hook. And, in the end, my explanation was simplicity itself: The perp could just have been that furious at having been deceived. Of course, I was aware that my theory needed some work. I hadn’t even tried to apply it to a particular suspect yet. The basic idea, though, seemed to make sense. But so many things do at one A.M., don’t they?
The next morning, before leaving for the office, I called Peter.
‘‘I won’t keep you,’’ I informed him. ‘‘Just two things. First: What night this week are you coming to dinner?’’
Anticipating his protest—since it was already the third time I’d extended the invitation—I told him quickly, ‘‘And your excuses won’t mean beans to me this time. We can make it a late as you want, too.’’
I guess I’d worn him down. ‘‘Thanks,’’ he responded.
‘‘That would be great—if you’re sure you wouldn’t mind eating at around nine.’’
We set it up for Thursday.
‘‘One thing more,’’ I said then. ‘‘Just tell me this: Did Mary Ann have a will?’’
‘‘I don’t think so, Desiree.’’
Nothing about this case was easy. Nothing. I brought my car to work that day, hoping to drive out to the Screaming Red Eagle in the early evening. I started calling the place as soon as I came back from lunch, just to make sure that the bartender I needed to talk to would be there that night. Someone finally picked up at a few minutes of four.
‘‘Screaming Red Eagle,’’ this deep, raspy voice
announced.
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‘‘What time do you open today?’’
‘‘We’re open now, lady.’’
‘‘Is Carl working tonight?’’
‘‘You’re talkin’ to him. Who’s this?’’
‘‘I’ll surprise you,’’ I said.
As soon as I clicked off, I dialed the coffee shop on the next block and ordered a burger and some fries. Then I did a little research on this other case that, like everything else, had been getting pretty short shrift since the day Peter reentered my life. I ate between a brief, gossipy chat with Jackie and phone calls to my gynecologist and ophthalmol
ogist, both of whom had sent me postcards at least three months back notifying me that I was now due for my an
nual checkup.
At around quarter after five, I left the office to pick up my Chevy at the garage around the corner.
The second I got downstairs, it started to pour. And I mean pour. The weatherman on WNBC that morning had predicted cloudy and cold with the chance of a few light, intermittent showers. I would very much have enjoyed seeing that man hang by his nose.
I ran back up to the office for the spare umbrella I keep in my desk and then made for the garage. Even with the umbrella, I was soaked by the time I got there. My hair, which was loaded down with the usual quarter can of hair spray, was plastered flat against my head and looked like red mucilage. (I knew in my heart that I would never be able to run a comb through it again.) My two-week-old suede pumps were filled with so much water I squished when I walked. And what was worst of all, the rain had gone right through my coat and baptized my beautiful tur
quoise silk blouse.
The drive to Hillsdale was a nig
htmare. Visibility was so poor, I had to pull over to the side of the road I don’t know how many times to wait for the rain to let up a little. Naturally, the minute it did and I’d get back on the high
way, there’d be another deluge. Under normal circum
stances, the ride shouldn’t have taken me more than an hour, tops. That night, it took closer to three. I swear, I could’ve made it faster if I’d crawled there on my hands and knees.
By the time I walked into the Screaming Red Eagle, I was tired and cold and very, very wet. I had to shake myself
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vigorously before I could even get out of my coat. I must have looked like something that escaped from a kennel. I took a seat at one end of the long, circular bar, sepa
rated by about ten stools from the only two other customers in the place. Evidently, most people have the good sense to stay home on a night like this.
The bartender was a tall, heavyset man of about fifty with sparse graying hair and fewer teeth. I ordered a blackberry brandy, which was definitely therapeutic in view of the shape I was in. ‘‘Are you Carl?’’ I asked, when he brought the drink over.
‘‘Yeah, that’s right.’’
‘‘I’m your surprise.’’ He stared at me blankly. ‘‘You know, the phone call this afternoon, remember?’’
He nodded, but he didn’t smile. The man didn’t seem overly fond of surprises.
I brought out my identification, which he barely glanced at. ‘‘So?’’ he said.
Now, I have no idea what possessed me to tell him this absurd story. It certainly wasn’t anything I’d planned on. But all of a sudden there it was, coming out of my mouth. And then I just kept on improvising as I went along.
‘‘I’ve been engaged by an attorney who’s anxious to lo
cate a customer of yours, a Mr. Roger Hyer,’’ I began. ‘‘Mr. Hyer’s come into some money—not a fortune, but nothing to sneeze at, either—and we haven’t been able to reach him.’’
I want you to know that I realized Carl had almost cer
tainly been prepped for my visit. And all I can say in my own defense is that on the off chance he wasn’t expecting me, I had a much better shot at getting him to cooperate than if I told him one of his customers was a murder sus
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