I can’t tell you how let down I felt. Or how hard I tried not to show it. ‘‘Thanks, but I think I may finally keep a promise to myself and do a wash. My laundry doesn’t even
fit in the hamper anymore; if I ignore it much longer, it could take over the whole apartment.’’
‘‘I can make it Sunday,’’ Ellen offered.
Well, on Sunday I was the one with the plans. So it was finally decided that Ellen would come over on Monday night after work. And when I thought about it, I realized that—as eager as I was to give her my news—Monday was actually a better idea, anyway. By then, there was a good chance Charlotte Bromley would have helped us unravel the mystery of the twins’ identities.
The way things worked out, though, I had more to tell Ellen on Monday than I could possibly have imagined. And for that, I could thank my friend Pat Martucci’s libido.
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*
*
*
All of Saturday morning, I was on edge. Due, I’m sure, to anxiety about both my plot for trapping the killer and Bromley’s homecoming. At a little after twelve, I forced myself to get out of the apartment.
In spite of attempting to resist the temptation every inch of the way, I managed to wind up on a bus headed in the direction of Bloomingdale’s. With my luck, they were hav
ing this absolutely wonderful sale on shoes there, and I picked up a beautiful pair of brown leather pumps—which I really did need—for a rock-bottom price. Which led to my paying an outrageous amount for the only bag in the whole place that even came close to matching them. Well, I’d blown so much money already, I might just as well go all the way. So I capped off the day by treating myself to dinner at a French restaurant not far from the store, where I indulged in all of my favorite things: escar
got, Caesar salad, duck a` l’orange with wild rice, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, and a truly unforgettable chocolate mousse. I left there maybe five pounds heavier and more than sixty dollars lighter.
In bed that night, I kept tossing and turning. I couldn’t stop thinking about the meeting with Bromley and what she might be able to tell us about the ring. I finally put on the television around two, but all I could find at that hour were infomercials. I fell asleep a long time afterward in the middle of the one where you’re practically guaranteed you’ll become a millionaire selling real estate by following a few simple steps. . . .
The next morning, I was really dragged out. But I’d promised my neighbor Harriet I’d go shopping with her on
the Lower East Side that day. Her nephew was getting married in only two weeks, and she hadn’t been able to find a dress yet. There was really no way I could disappoint her. Now, Harriet Gould and I have lived across the hall from
each other for three years. And I like her a lot. But she’s the world’s most infuriating shopper. At the second store we walked into, she found a pale turquoise crepe she loved. It was a great fit, and she couldn’t get over how absolutely perfect it would be for the wedding. ‘‘But I can’t just grab the very first thing I put on,’’ she decided.
Three and a half hours, a dozen dresses, and four very tired feet later, she came to the realization that she had to
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have the turquoise crepe. So we rushed back to the store, only to find the dress had been sold. They would try to special order it on Monday, they told my tearful friend. It was three-thirty when I finally got home, and by then I was barely ambulatory. Pat Martucci and I were supposed to be having dinner together that night, and I really didn’t see how I’d be able to make it. But after an hour’s nap followed by a brisk shower (I know I would have dozed off and drowned if I’d attempted a bubble bath), I came more or less alive again.
We were to meet at the restaurant at 6:45. But at 6:15, just as I was buttoning my coat, the phone rang.
‘‘You’re going to kill me,’’ Pat said.
‘‘Why? What’s up?’’
‘‘Ahhh, the thing is, I met the most interesting man yes
terday—Paul Castle, his name is. He was visiting his sister, who lives in my building, and we started talking in the lobby, and then he asked for my number. Anyway, we just hung up; he phoned to tell me a friend of his called a few minutes ago to offer him these two tickets to Crazy for You for tonight. And, well, he asked if I was free, and I said I was.’’
There was a brief pause for a change of tone before Pat added imploringly, ‘‘Don’t be angry, Dez. I know it wasn’t the right thing to do, but it just popped out. It isn’t the show; you know that. I’d never break a date with you to go to a show. As a matter of fact, I saw Crazy for You with my ex a week after it opened, and I didn’t even like it that much. Honestly. But what I do like is Paul Castle. And, uh, I can’t seem to help it, I’m fuckin’ mush when it comes to an attractive man.’’ This was followed by a selfconscious little giggle, and then Pat asked in this cloying, kittenish voice that made me want to gag, ‘‘You mad at me?’’
Well, considering how down in the dumps she’d been lately, I wouldn’t have been much of a friend if I hadn’t let her off the hook. I mean, for Pat to be without a man is almost like someone else being without food or water; there’s really a serious question about how long she’d man
age to survive.
‘‘No, I’m not mad at you,’’ I told her. ‘‘Actually, I had a pretty tiring day, so I’m probably better off just staying home and taking it easy.’’
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‘‘That’s what I thought. I remembered your mentioning you had to go shopping with your friend today, so I figured you were probably exhausted anyway and that—’’
I cut her short. Any minute now, she’d convince herself that concern for my well-being was her main reason for canceling. Which was where I got off. ‘‘Look, have a won
derful time,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’’
The fact is, it was really just as well Pat had made other plans. The thought of getting into my bathrobe and stretch
ing out on the sofa was suddenly very appealing to me. I began unbuttoning my coat. But when I came to the last button, I stood there for a minute, thinking. I wonder . . . A moment later, I walked over to the phone. I had my hand on the receiver, then pulled it away. Suppose I was right and the woman was home. If I called, I’d be giving her the opportunity to say she was too tired or too busy or too something else to see me. No, better to just take my chances and hop a cab over there.
I could picture Charlotte Bromley sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, right now. After all, the message on the answering machine said she’d be back on the six
teenth—tomorrow. Well, I usually tell people I’ll be home the day after I’m due to return, especially if there’s a possi
bility I won’t be getting in until late.
On the other hand, though, I was probably kidding my
self—projecting my idiosyncrasy onto Bromley because I was so anxious for her to be there tonight. The message did specify the sixteenth, and that’s probably just when she’d be coming back. So why schlep all the way downtown—espe
cially when I was this tired? I mean, after waiting all these weeks, what was the big deal about waiting one more day?
I undid the last coat button. I even got as far as slipping one arm out of its sleeve before changing my mind again. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do, I thought with a smidgen of self-pity. And I was really dying to hear what she had to say. So why didn’t I just go down there and see whether she was in or not? What did I have to lose?
Determinedly, I put the arm back in the sleeve and redid the buttons.
Suddenly I was sure I’d find Bromley home and that she’d know about the ring.
I could feel it in my bones.
Chapter 35
The taxi dropped me off in front of a faded yellow brick apartment house. It was an old building a
nd quite shabby. But the architecture, with its rounded corners, high double and triple windows, and imposing recessed entranceway, suggested that years back this must have been a pretty good address.
The night was unusually cold—more like February than mid-March—and I was shivering even more than usual when I entered the good-sized vestibule. For some reason, it popped into my head then that today was March fif
teenth—the Ides of March. I shivered again. But this time it had nothing to do with the weather.
Just to the left of the door was the tenant listing. Brom
ley’s entry was in black block letters engraved on a silver metal plate. It read C. BROMLEY, JEWELRY AS ART. I pushed the buzzer next to the nameplate and waited nervously. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I was about to give up and leave when the door opened behind me and a chill wind rushed in, whipping my coat around my legs.
Turning around, I found myself staring into the face of the last person on earth I wanted to see.
‘‘I have a gun in my pocket,’’ the killer informed me in a low, even voice. ‘‘And I want you to stand here quietly; don’t even move a muscle. If you do exactly what I tell you, you’ll be fine.’’
Bullshit! I am in a whole lot of trouble, I thought, even as I dutifully obeyed the instructions. The perp was right beside me now, jamming something into my ribs. I didn’t have to look down to know the gun was no longer in any pocket. (My own thirty-two, of course, was exactly where it would do me no good at all: in my bedroom at the bot
tom of a drawer.)
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‘‘Not a sound,’’ I was told as the killer pressed one of the buzzers.
A man’s hoarse voice came over the intercom. ‘‘Who is it?’’
Another buzzer was pressed. This time, someone
buzzed back.
Reaching in front of me, my captor opened the door to the once-grand lobby and shoved me inside. ‘‘Walk,’’ was the softly spoken command. Now the fingers of one hand tightly gripped my arm, while the other hand pressed the gun—carefully concealed in the folds of my coat—firmly into my side.
I was steered around a corner. Down the hall, a middleaged couple was just getting off the elevator. ‘‘Careful—and smile,’’ the killer warned, jiggling the weapon for emphasis. The couple was almost parallel with us now, smiling per
functorily at me and my deadly companion. A jab of the gun was a reminder that I was expected to return the smile. Putting all the fear in my heart into that one forced ex
pression, I willed those two people to look at me— really look at me. But in a moment they had passed, and I heard the front door close firmly after them.
‘‘Keep going,’’ I was ordered. Now we were alone in the long, dimly lit hall, the only other signs of life a muted chorus of TVs and stereos emanating from behind the cold
gray doors that lined the corridor on either side. We came to the elevators, and I thought briefly that the killer—under the impression Bromley might be home—
could be planning for the two of us to pay her a surprise visit. But, jerking the gun up and down again, the murderer nudged me forward.
I realized then that we were heading for the stairs. And I knew that once we reached the seclusion of the stairwell, I wouldn’t have a worry in the world. Not in this world, anyway.
Suddenly, without even knowing I was going to do it, I stopped short. Picking up my foot, I brought the thin spiked heel—fortified by the not inconsiderable poundage behind it—crashing down on my captor’s instep. The killer jumped back in pain, and I broke free, reversing direction and run
ning toward the front door.
‘‘Help!’’ I screeched in a voice that might have been heard on the moon.
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217
Not one gray door opened—a sad testimony to the qual
ity of big-city life in the nineties.
It’s amazing how much ground even the most out-of
condition body can cover when fueled by terror. But the murderer had something to fear now, too—along with a body in much better shape than my own.
And then, when there was no more than a foot or so between us, I got my inspiration.
‘‘Fire!’’ I screamed.
Immediately, a door flew open. And another. With the third, a large, heavyset man in an undershirt rushed out of his apartment, crashing into the two of us and knocking the gun to the floor.
There is something to be said for having a low center of gravity. I instantly regained my balance, and as my assailant bent down to retrieve the weapon, I aimed my foot at the obvious target. The well-placed kick sent the killer sprawling.
It was pandemonium by then, with more and more ten
ants pouring into the hall by the second. The killer was frantically scrambling for the gun now, amid cries of
‘‘What’s going on?’’ and ‘‘Is there a fire or isn’t there?’’
and ‘‘Is this some kind of a joke?’’
Surrounded by people and with the weapon completely obscured from sight, there was really no alternative. Springing to his feet and shoving everyone aside in a decidedly ungentlemanly, un-British manner, Eric Foster raced from the building.
Chapter 36
I was that close to fainting, but I couldn’t spare the time. Quickly reaching into my handbag, I got out a handkerchief and, in the same motion, went down on all fours to take up the search Foster had been forced to abort.
I spotted the gun almost at once, but a high-heeled red slipper, a pair of running shoes, and the most beautiful black calf pumps (no doubt Italian) stood between the weapon and me. I rapped a few ankles with my knuckles, and, to the accompaniment of some indignant yelps, the obstacles were removed. Scooping up the gun in my hand
kerchief, I placed it carefully in my bag.
Now I could spare the time. So, heroine that I am, I promptly passed out cold.
Sputtering, I opened my eyes to a very earnest face just inches from my own. A man in his late twenties—thirty, at most—was kneeling beside me, waving a cotton pad doused
with something pungent under my nostrils. He wore a bright-colored plaid scarf around his neck, and there was a stethoscope over the scarf. His face had the pinched look people get when they’ve just been out in the cold for a long time.
‘‘How do you feel?’’ he asked anxiously.
‘‘Okay,’’ I coughed, pushing his hand with that lethal cotton pad away from my nose and struggling to sit up. He helped me into a seated position, while I tugged at my skirt, which had crawled up to somewhere in the vicinity of my most private parts. Embarrassed, I looked around. Only a few stragglers were left in the hall now, and they were gathered just a couple of feet away from me, staring curi
ously and speaking in hushed tones.
‘‘Go back to your apartments, everybody, please,’’ the
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young man entreated. ‘‘There’s no fire, and the lady’s all right.’’
As soon as the small assemblage had dispersed, he said,
‘‘My neighbor told me he thought you were mugged.’’
‘‘Not mugged, exactly. I’m a private investigator, and I ran into a suspect here who pulled a gun on me. And then, once it was all over,’’ I admitted sheepishly, ‘‘I guess I fainted.’’
‘‘I understand someone yelled ‘fire’ right before I came in. You?’’
‘‘Me.’’
‘‘Good thinking,’’ he remarked admiringly. And a mo
ment later: ‘‘I wonder if anyone bothered to call the police.’’
‘‘I’ll take care of it.’’ I was struggling to hoist myself up, but my caregiver cautioned me.
‘‘Sit there for a minute until I get back; I just want to drop this off in my apartment.’’ With that, he picked up the medical bag alongside me and shoved the stethoscope inside it. Then he retrieved the down
jacket he’d evidently placed under my head and went loping down the hall. He returned before I could even think about ignoring his
decree. ‘‘Does anything hurt?’’ he asked.
‘‘Uh-uh.’’
‘‘Okay, then, easy now.’’ Placing a firm hand under my elbow and an arm around my waist, he assisted me in—
shakily—reaching my full five-foot-two-inch stature. ‘‘Would you like to come in and lie down for a while?’’ He was addressing me from an altitude of well over six feet, and it made me dizzy just looking up at him. ‘‘I’m a doctor,’’ he added hastily.
I smiled to myself. I was tempted to say So that’s why you walk around with a stethoscope dangling from your neck, but I censored the smart-ass remark. ‘‘Thanks, but I really do feel better now,’’ I assured him. ‘‘Although I’d appreciate it if I could use your phone to report this.’’
‘‘Of course.’’ He practically bent himself in half to steady me as we walked down the hall to his apartment. And I was grateful. The truth was, I was still a little light-headed. Plus the side of my head was kind of sore (although I suppose it would have been a lot sorer if I hadn’t passed out when it was only about nine inches off the floor). As soon as we were in his apartment, the doctor steered
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me over to a chair and brought me a portable phone. Then
he retreated to the kitchen.
I dialed the precinct, but Fielding wasn’t on duty, so I tried him at home. ‘‘Is Tim there, Jo Ann?’’ I asked when his wife answered. ‘‘It’s Desiree Shapiro, and I’m sorry to have to bother him now, but it’s urgent.’’
‘‘What’s urgent?’’ Tim asked genially less than a minute later. He always assumes I’m exaggerating.
I began filling him in on what had transpired that eve
ning, skipping the details so I could get to the crucial point as quickly as possible: ‘‘. . . and when everyone rushed into the hall, Foster bolted. I knew you’d want to have him picked up right away.’’ Only then did I pause for breath.
‘‘Hold it a minute. Are you okay?’’ But once he was convinced I’d live, Fielding sounded very much as if he wanted to kill me. ‘‘Do you really think that limey hump’s hanging around the city waiting for the police to come call
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