What, in heaven’s name, could have been that terrible, any
way? And did I come across as being so unsympathetic that I was the last person he could confide in? (Wouldn’t you know I’d find a way to put at least part of the blame on myself?)
I was so unnerved by the whole thing, I thought it might
not be a bad idea to take a little mental health break that evening and go see a movie or something instead of pursu
ing the agenda I’d mapped out for myself. But in the end
176
Selma Eichler
I stuck with my original plan: resuming my talks with the rest of the Love and Stuff company. At seven o’clock, I got in touch with Midge Corso, the actress who, according to little Tara Wilde, had actually overheard an emotional confrontation between Meredith and Larry Shields. It took perseverance, but I eventually persuaded her to meet me for a drink that night. Midge, it turned out, was about five years older than Tara and about fifteen years more worldly. She was on to me the minute I broached the subject of the breakup. (And I’d sharpened my technique a little, too, so my approach was really much more clever that time. Or so I thought.) After three drinks, a platter of chicken wings, and too many hastily improvised strategies to count, I wound up getting absolutely nowhere. Just as I had with Tara. And this time the getting there was a lot less friendly, besides. And—just so you know—I didn’t make out any better with whichever remaining members of the company agreed
to see me later on during the next week and a half. In fact, I only learned one thing from that entire Love and Stuff bunch: Larry Shields inspired amazing loyalty from the peo
ple around him. I mean, for all of them to close ranks and safeguard his secret like that . . . well, it was really something.
But to get back to what, for a long time, I would think of as Traumatic Tuesday . . .
When my disappointing meeting with Midge Corso was over, I came home to find a message on my machine. It was from Peter, and he sounded thoroughly deflated.
‘‘Please call me,’’ he said. ‘‘I just spoke to Dr. Baker. Fielding turned him down.’’
Chapter 26
I returned Peter’s call at eight the next morning.
‘‘I was just going to try you again,’’ he told me. ‘‘You got my message?’’
‘‘Yes, but I didn’t come home until almost midnight, and
I was afraid you might be sleeping by that time.’’
‘‘It’s okay,’’ he said. Then: ‘‘I have a favor to ask, Desiree.’’
‘‘Sure. What?’’
‘‘Could you talk to your friend Fielding for me—see if you can get him to change his mind about the hospital?
Please.’’
‘‘I already tried, believe me. He won’t even consider it. Listen to me, Peter. I know you had nothing to do with the shootings, so I’m sure that whatever it is you’re hiding can’t be as terrible as you think. And just look at the conse
quences of your holding out on the police. Is it worth what it’s doing to you and to Mary Ann?’’
‘‘Maybe not,’’ Peter answered wretchedly, ‘‘but I just can’t help it.’’
When I got to the office an hour later, Jackie handed me
a message from Fielding asking me to call.
‘‘What did your client have to say?’’ he demanded as soon as he heard my voice.
‘‘Uh, I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet.’’
‘‘You expect me to believe that?’’ he fumed.
‘‘It’s true,’’ I said—very unconvincingly, I’m afraid. ‘‘I’ll try reaching him now.’’
‘‘You do that.’’
‘‘I will. I’m—’’
But he hung up in my ear. God, I hate that!
I figured I’d wait a day before talking to Peter again. Maybe by then his banishment from the hospital might soften his resolve. But when I phoned on Thursday, he had
178
Selma Eichler
a counterproposal for me. ‘‘Tell Fielding if he’ll let me see Mary Ann for just a few minutes, I’ll give him some im
portant information.’’
‘‘What important information, Peter?’’ I asked quietly. If he’d been holding out on me, I would gleefully chop off his beautiful neck!
‘‘About the ring.’’
‘‘ What ring?’’
‘‘You don’t know about it?’’
‘‘ What ring, Peter?’’ I repeated, gnashing my teeth.
‘‘Didn’t Fielding say anything to you?’’
As you can imagine, by now I was very close to scream
ing. It was with a supreme effort that I kept my voice even.
‘‘Tell me about the ring.’’
‘‘It came into the possession of the police last week; I don’t know any of the details. Anyway, it’s got this ame
thyst stone, and apparently either Mary Ann or Meredith had it on that night. Fielding showed it to me to see if I recognized it.’’
‘‘And you didn’t even mention this to me?’’
‘‘I was sure Fielding had already told you. Honestly. I know he confides in you a lot.’’
‘‘Not voluntarily,’’ I remarked dryly. ‘‘Okay, so what about the ring? Did you recognize it?’’
‘‘Not exactly.’’
‘‘But you know something about it?’’
‘‘Well, when I first saw it and Fielding asked if I’d ever noticed Mary Ann wearing a ring like that, I told him I couldn’t remember.’’ ( That I had no trouble believing!)
‘‘And then, on Tuesday morning, when he was over here with that other detective—Corcoran—I asked if anybody else had been able to tell them anything about the ring, and they said not so far. But last night I was thinking about it; I really concentrated on trying to remember whether I’d ever seen it on Mary Ann. I thought maybe I had, but for the life of me, I couldn’t be sure. Anyway, I was disap
pointed, because I figured that if I’d been able to identify the ring, it might have gotten me back in Fielding’s good graces—enough so it could get me a half hour at the hospi
tal, at least.’’
‘‘I doubt if that would have helped,’’ I interjected.
‘‘Then it came to me,’’ Peter continued, ignoring my comment, ‘‘about Charlotte—Charlotte Bromley. She’s this
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
179
friend of Mary Ann’s who’s away on vacation—until the middle of this month, I think you told me. Right?’’
‘‘That’s right,’’ I confirmed. ‘‘And?’’
‘‘Charlotte’s a jewelry designer. In fact, Mary Ann buys a lot of the stuff for the shop from her—that’s how they met. She’s friendly with Meredith, too, though. Charlotte would know which of them used to wear that ring, wouldn’t she? After all, that’s her business.’’
He could be right! A jewelry designer would be likely to notice something like that. It was even possible the ring was one of Bromley’s own designs, in which case she’d certainly be able to tell us who it belonged to. But a second later this little voice inside me was warning, Haven’t you learned yet not to count on anything with this case, you cretin? So, tempering my enthusiasm, I said to Peter, ‘‘And this occurred to you just last night?’’
‘‘Yes. And I was going to tell you about it as soon as I spoke to you. Not that it’s really that important, except to maybe help me with Fielding.’’
‘‘But this woman’s information could establish the vic
tims’ identities,’’ I pointed out.
‘‘Mary Ann’s the one in that hospital room, Desiree.’’
‘‘But the ring would give us the proof !’’ I insisted, no longer able to contain my excitement. What did that inner voice of mine know, anyway?
‘‘I don’t need any proof,’’ Peter maintained with quiet conviction. ‘‘About Fielding, though. . . . I was afraid if I called and tried to barga
in with him, it would sound like blackmail, but if you called—’’
‘‘It would still sound like blackmail.’’
‘‘See what you can do, anyway, will you, Desiree?
Please? I’m really going stir-crazy not being allowed to see Mary Ann.’’
Under protest, and with a whole lot of misgivings, I fi
nally agreed to act as the middleman for my client. Fielding wasn’t in when I tried him, so I left a message. He didn’t get back to me until the following morning. There was no ‘‘Hello.’’ No ‘‘How are you?’’ None of the
normal pleasantries you expect to hear when you pick up the telephone. Fielding’s opener was ‘‘You talk to your client?’’ It sounded like he was biting off the words.
‘‘Yes, and he’s got a proposition for you.’’
180
Selma Eichler
‘‘A what?’’
‘‘Don’t get excited, Tim. It’s about that ring—you know, the one you never bothered telling me about.’’
‘‘I beg your pardon, Ms. Shapiro,’’ he said, his voice so soft and polite there was no doubt he was seething. ‘‘For
give me. It occasionally slips my mind that the police are obligated to report to you.’’
Well, I’d blown it already. Antagonizing him certainly wasn’t going to make Fielding more receptive to my client’s proposal, which I definitely knew would make him crazy anyway. And which only Peter’s desperation coupled with my fondness for him could have induced me to present.
‘‘So what does Winters want to sell me?’’
‘‘Oh, I wouldn’t say he wants to sell—’’
He stopped me in midprotest. ‘‘Cool it, huh, Desiree?
Just tell me what this is about.’’
I spoke quickly to get it over with. ‘‘Well, Peter believes there’s a way you can find out who that ring belongs to. And all he’s asking is that if he tells you, you let him go up and see the victim.’’ Before Fielding could respond, I slipped in, ‘‘Just once. And only for a few minutes.’’
The reaction was as bad as I’d expected it to be. Or maybe a little worse. ‘‘You tell your client there’s no deal. If he wants to get into that hospital room, we’ve gotta know where he was that night. And furthermore, if he has any information about that ring, it’s his duty to give it to the police. And if he doesn’t do that, I’ll have that butt of his tossed in jail for withholding evidence!’’
Now, as little as I know about the law, I did know one thing: There was no withholding of evidence here; all Peter was keeping to himself were his own thoughts. ‘‘But Peter doesn’t have what you could call evidence, Tim; it’s just an idea that occurred to him.’’
‘‘Which you are about to share with me. Unless you, too,
would like to see the inside of a jail, with all of those cute little mice and nice, juicy cockroaches to keep you company.’’
Now, I wouldn’t say I’m suggestible, but I already felt as though something was crawling up my leg. Shuddering, I even looked down to check.
‘‘And don’t think I won’t do it, either,’’ Tim assured me menacingly. ‘‘Whoever shot those two women is one perp
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
181
who’s not going to get away with murder—no matter what it takes.’’
Remember my good friend Tim Fielding—that nice guy I told you about earlier? Well, right now he was sounding a lot like his extremely un-nice partner. He must be under a tremendous amount of pressure with this damn case, I decided, defending him to myself. I mean, this was really so unlike him.
‘‘And don’t hand me any of that ’client confidentiality’
crap,’’ he put in then. ‘‘Because I won’t be able to hear you. Get me?’’
‘‘Look, Tim, I don’t know what’s on Peter’s mind,’’ I lied through my recently veneered teeth. ‘‘I’d tell you if I did.’’
‘‘I want you to hang up and have another talk with your client. And I want you to inform him there’s no deal. And right after that, you make it clear to him— very clear—that he’d better get his ass down here and start leveling with us if he knows what’s good for him!’’
I gathered the conversation was over then, because, once
again, I heard that infuriating sound in my ear.
Chapter 27
I was in over my head. What had ever possessed me to accept this case, anyway? I could have recommended a half dozen—no, a dozen—P.I.s to Peter who were better quali
fied to handle an investigation like this than I was. And every one of them would probably have the whole thing solved by now, too. I even thought briefly about resigning. I’d taken on the case with the provision that all I had to do was establish the identity of the survivor, hadn’t I? And if Peter was so sure that girl in the hospital was Mary Ann, then my job was over, wasn’t it?
Oh, who was I kidding? No matter what he said and how
many times he said it, Peter had to have his doubts. And besides, there was no way I could walk away from this mess. Not anymore.
Right then, though, I really wasn’t up to reporting back to my client and getting myself involved in another hassle; that little exchange with Fielding had been more than enough to last me at least until tomorrow, thank you. So when Peter called the office that afternoon, I took the cow
ard’s way out and had Jackie tell him I wasn’t in. When I got home at a few minutes after six, there was a message from my neighbor Barbara on the machine.
‘‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’’ she said when I re
turned the call. ‘‘I thought, if you don’t have other plans, maybe we could go out and grab something to eat a little later.’’
‘‘Oh, I would have liked that, Barbara, but I’m invited over to my niece’s for Chinese.’’ I swear that small false
hood was more for Barbara’s sake than mine. In my present mood, if that woman had uttered even one syllable about my weight or my cholesterol, she would have been seri
ously maimed.
I wanted to just stay home and unwind, anyway. I poured
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
183
myself a glass of Chianti—and I almost never drink alone—
then kicked off my shoes and curled up on the sofa. In the half hour or so that I sat there sipping, the most important thought that crossed my mind was what I would have for dinner.
After I’d really mellowed out, I went into the kitchen to fix myself what Ellen refers to as one of my ‘‘refrigerator omelets’’—so named because I throw in just about every
thing I have in my refrigerator at the moment. Tonight’s version featured ham, mozzarella cheese, Parmesan cheese, onions, green peas, a small piece of red pepper, and some leftover chicken. Now, I don’t exactly know how that sounds, but I can assure you, it tasted a lot better. I followed the omelet with some Macadamia Brittle ice cream, which I was certainly entitled to after all I’d been through that day. And I was toying with the idea of follow
ing that with a Snickers bar when the telephone rescued my waistline.
Still avoiding Peter, I waited until the answering machine went on. It was Fielding. And that call I was even less anxious to take.
‘‘I wanted to know what that client of yours had to say,’’
he snarled over the machine. ‘‘I’m off this weekend, but I expect to see him in here on Monday—and in a talkative mood.’’
I got in the last word. Sort of. ‘‘And a happy weekend to you, too,’’ I snarled back as soon as he hung up. I spent Saturday doing as little as possible. I didn’t go through my notes. I didn’t call Peter. And I didn’t pick up the phone when he called me, either. I also didn’t clean my apartment, read a book, or stick my nose out of the door. I just sat in front of the television from eleven A.M. until after midnight—with a brief break for meals, snacks, and other necessities—happily watching one boring pro
gram after anothe
r. (I think I’d even have been satisfied looking at test patterns, if it came to that.) The thing is, it was like sending my malfunctioning brain on a brief—and badly needed—vacation.
On Sunday morning, I finally got back to Peter with some
kind of health-related apology for not calling sooner. (It was either plain food poisoning or Legionnaire’s disease—
I can’t remember which.) When I relayed where things
184
Selma Eichler
stood with Fielding, he didn’t seem overly upset that his proposition had been turned down; I guess he was more or
less prepared for it. But as soon as I told him about the threats, his voice grew anxious. ‘‘It’s one thing to put the screws to me, but can he really throw you in jail?’’
‘‘Don’t worry about that,’’ I said, touched by his concern. Then I added hastily, ‘‘But he can make things pretty un
comfortable for me. And for you, too.’’ After that, I segued into what must have been my hundredth attempt to per
suade him to change his mind and talk to the police. But, as usual, he dug in his heels and very apologetically turned me down.
Ellen called in the afternoon. We spent fifteen minutes discussing her friend Gail, who was being married in a few weeks and who hadn’t invited her to the wedding. Ellen—
who’d (a) gotten this girl a job at Macy’s and (b) held her hand every time she threatened suicide when her fiance´
dumped her for three months last year so he could ‘‘get in touch with his feelings"—was crushed.
‘‘You know,’’ she explained, ‘‘it’s not a very big affair, so I didn’t really mind her not inviting me until I found out one of her co-workers was going—a girl she’s only known six months. Gail and I have been friends for over seven years.’’
The next fifteen minutes were devoted to an in-depth analysis of whether or not Ellen should let Gail know how she felt. (In case you’re interested, it was decided that she would say something—but not until after the wedding.) Then I got equal time.
I kicked off by whining about still having this big unan
swered question with regard to the argument between Mer
edith and Larry Shields. Following that, I dropped the news that my client had been lying to me.
Murder Can Ruin Your Looks Page 21
