So I’d been right! Slow-witted—as Fielding had been kind enough to point out—but right. I could take at least a little satisfaction from that. ‘‘Everything was in Mere
dith’s name alone?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yup. More than two million dollars worth, in fact. Be
sides the condo, the only thing in both women’s names was that checking account we came across earlier. Only, on that, Meredith used the name Foster like her sister—to keep things simpler, maybe.’’
‘‘Congratulations, Tim. That was good work,’’ I said graciously.
‘‘What’s important, though, is that we found the will,’’
Fielding continued hurriedly, looking ill at ease. (He takes a lot better to insults than he does to compliments.) ‘‘That should help in prosecuting the slimeball.’’
‘‘The will was made out under Garibaldi, too?’’
‘‘It was. And you were on the money—the woman used Leibowitz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell, just like you said. We ran into a little problem at first, though. She saw some pain-in-the-ass kid over there, and the pompous young jerk refused to talk to us. All we wanted him to do, for chris
sakes, was verify what we already knew about the terms of the thing from Winters. But young Perry Mason was claim
ing privileged communication. Said if we gave him Mere
dith’s death certificate he’d probate the will, and then we could find out what was in it. I came close to strangling the little puke!’’
‘‘Didn’t you explain why you couldn’t give him a death certificate?’’
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
247
‘‘What do you think? I finally told him he could . . . Well, forget what I told him. Anyhow, since we had probable cause, it wasn’t too tough getting Judge Wilhelm to issue a search and seizure.’’
‘‘What did you find out?’’
‘‘There were no surprises. It appears your client actually got something right, for a change.’’
I knew Fielding was riding me; nevertheless, I felt obli
gated to protest. ‘‘Wait just a damned minute—’’
‘‘Hey, I like Winters myself,’’ he broke in, grinning. ‘‘But you gotta admit, he is kind of an airhead.’’
‘‘He is not!’’ I responded heatedly. ‘‘He’s very bright; it’s just that he’s been under so much strain with this thing.’’
Fielding put up his hand. ‘‘Okay, you win. But you men
tioned before that you had something to tell me.’’
Now, my good friend was so pleased with himself for finally uncovering those missing assets that I didn’t want to stomp on his ego by letting him know I’d reached the same conclusion he had (although he probably wouldn’t have be
lieved me, anyway). At any rate, I said I’d wait until after we ordered, since I figured that would buy me enough time
to come up with some plausible substitute for the theory I’d intended discussing with him, which, of course, he’d already unknowingly confirmed. If you can follow that. Fielding vetoed the postponement. ‘‘You might as well spill it now,’’ he told me, scanning the room. ‘‘I don’t see our waiter anywhere; I think the guy must have gone on sabbatical.’’
‘‘It . . . uh . . . really wasn’t anything important,’’ I said, floundering for a moment. Then it occurred to me: Helen Ward! ‘‘But, on the other hand,’’ I amended hastily, ‘‘it was kind of enlightening. . . .’’
A few minutes after I quickly recapped what I’d learned from Ward, our waiter materialized and we ordered lunch. It was a delightful meal. Although I did feel a little guilty enjoying it at Fielding’s expense knowing that, once again, I planned to try and beat him to the punch with Bromley. But, unwittingly, Fielding had his revenge.
Thanks to his damned restaurant, I woke up that night with a first-class case of food poisoning.
Chapter 42
I stayed home Thursday and Friday.
All of Thursday I remained within dashing distance of the bathroom. And except for a brief call to Jackie telling her I wouldn’t be in (which I didn’t dare forget to make), I avoided all human contact. The phone rang once late in the afternoon, but I couldn’t even consider answering it, and the caller didn’t leave a message. But who cared? I was too busy praying for death.
Friday was somewhat better. I made myself some tea and
toast around eight, when I got up, and at a little after ten I heard from Peter.
He was jubilant. ‘‘Mary Ann remembered something last
night! She said, ‘The play; there was this play . . .’ That’s all she said, but it’s the first time she remembered anything. It’s the proof you’re always talking about, Desiree—the proof that she really is Mary Ann!’’
I didn’t know how to respond.
‘‘Don’t you get it? We met at a play! That’s what she was referring to!’’
What good would it have done to point out that those words could as easily have come from Meredith—more eas
ily, in fact? I was sure the same thought had entered Peter’s mind, too; only he’d shoved it right out again. And the thing is, I couldn’t really blame him.
My next call, at a little before noon, was from Stuart. He’d tried me at the office just to say hello, he said, and Jackie told him about the food poisoning. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’ he asked solicitously.
I assured him that I was a lot better than yesterday.
‘‘I’ve been meaning to call you, but I just haven’t had a chance. I don’t think I’ve ever been this busy in my life,’’
he explained. ‘‘But listen, I’ve been thinking. Instead of going upstate to my brother’s place when this madness is
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
249
over, it might not be a bad idea to take a week off and fly down to Nassau or Bermuda—somewhere like that. What do you think?’’
I wasn’t sure just how he meant that, so I answered cau
tiously. ‘‘Sounds good to me. And you’ll certainly be able to use a vacation after tax season.’’
‘‘I wasn’t just talking about me; I meant the two of us. Hopefully, by that time you’ll have everything wrapped up, too. How’s it coming, by the way?’’
Knowing how busy he was, all I said was that things were
finally falling into place and I’d fill him in when I saw him. He was apparently more than willing to settle for that.
‘‘Well, how about it?’’ he asked then. ‘‘Think you could go for a little R&R at some tropical island paradise?’’
‘‘I might be able to force myself.’’
He promised to pick up some travel folders as soon as he could.
And I hung up happy.
Don’t get me wrong. Stuart and I will never be more to one another than good friends. But I’d been missing the physical part of our relationship more and more lately—
slut that I am. Besides, think of all the calories I’d be burn
ing off!
I fixed myself a light lunch after that. And a short while later, inspired by thoughts of my liaison with Stuart, I de
cided to tackle this other matter I’d been meaning to see to. Now, I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but I’m not really much of a telephone person. Sometimes I have to psych myself up to make a normal business call. And what I had in mind right then was a whole lot trickier. You wouldn’t believe how nervous I was just dialing that
number. The only thing that got me through it was the almost certain conviction he wouldn’t be home.
‘‘Lynton,’’ he announced, picking up on the first ring.
‘‘This is Desiree Shapiro, Mike—the woman who spent so much time at your feet last Sunday night, remember?’’
That carefully rehearsed line brought the hoped-for re
sponse. ‘‘I remember,’’ the young doctor answered,
chuckling.
I mentally rolled up my sleeves.
For the past few days, I’d really been agonizing over how to present my proposi
tion without sounding like a terrible busybody. But I’d fi
nally concluded that there was no way to avoid sounding
250
Selma Eichler
like a terrible busybody. So I just took a deep breath and said, ‘‘I hope you won’t think I’m too forward, but . . . uh
. . . I was wondering, do you have a girlfriend?’’ There must have been a more tactful way to put that!
A long pause. Then Lynton answered warily, ‘‘Well, I do see this one woman.’’
He really wasn’t very convincing. And at that moment it occurred to me we might have a little glitch in communica
tions here. ‘‘You don’t think . . . that is, I hope you realize I’m not asking for myself,’’ I tittered.
‘‘Oh, of course not,’’ Lynton lied, an audible exhale be
traying his relief.
With that clarified, I barreled ahead. ‘‘I have this lovely young niece,’’ I told him, ‘‘and I just know you two would get along. Believe me, I wouldn’t be making such a com
plete ass of myself if I weren’t positive you’d hit it off.’’
‘‘I’m sure your niece is great, but I never go out on blind dates.’’ Then—in what was unmistakably a preface to terminating the call—he said quickly, ‘‘It was nice of you to think of me, though.’’
‘‘But it doesn’t have to be really blind,’’ I said just as quickly. ‘‘I could send you a picture of Ellen. Ellen Kravitz is her name, by the way.’’
There was a smile in Lynton’s voice now. ‘‘Thanks, but I’m really not—’’
‘‘A video?’’
He laughed. ‘‘You don’t give up, do you?’’
‘‘Look, what have you got to lose? Meet her for a drink or something. If you like each other, fine. If you don’t, all you’ve wasted is about a half hour of your whole life.’’
A moment’s hesitation. ‘‘I don’t know. I—’’
He never got a chance to finish what by now had with
ered to a halfhearted protest. I closed in for the kill. ‘‘Do you realize how many wonderful experiences you can miss out on by being overly cautious?’’
‘‘Well . . .’’
‘‘She’ll pay for her own drink. Hey, maybe I can even talk her into paying for yours.’’
‘‘Okay, okay,’’ he said laughing heartily at this point.
‘‘You can stop selling; I surrender. Let me have her number.’’
‘‘You’ll call her?’’
‘‘I’ll call her. Scout’s honor.’’
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
251
At nine-thirty that night I reached Ellen. I could hardly wait to fill her in on my coup.
She didn’t exactly applaud my efforts. ‘‘You did what?’’
was how she put it. Then, on the very brink of tears: ‘‘I can just imagine what he thinks of me, having my aunt drum up dates for me that way! He’s probably got me down
as a total reject! What’s next? Are you planning to stand on a street corner with a lasso?’’
Now, while past experience wouldn’t let me discount the possibility that Ellen might be a little embarrassed by my contacting Mike Lynton, past experience had also led me to believe she’d get over it in about three minutes. Appar
ently it was different this time. And what was worse, I had just accomplished the last thing in the world I’d intended: to further erode Ellen’s already very eroded self-con
fidence.
I pointed out then that, if anything, Lynton might have the idea there was something weird about me—not her. After which I went on to rave about all of the young doc
tor’s admirable qualities (and I did very well by him, too, considering our rather brief acquaintanceship).
‘‘Look, he’s not going to call; he said he would just to get rid of you. But even if he does call, I won’t see him,’’
my usually pliable niece stated firmly. ‘‘Not if I want to have any respect for myself at all.’’
That’s pretty much how we left things. And afterward I spent a long time trying to justify my actions to myself. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for Ellen. I just wanted
to see her meet someone she could care for; was that so wrong? Besides, I had to make up for Will Fitzgerald. All right. So maybe I did get a little carried away, phon
ing someone I hardly knew like that. But my heart was certainly in the right place. The trouble was—I finally got around to conceding—my brains must have traveled south. Thanks to me, Ellen now felt like one of the ten most desperate women on the planet.
God! When would I learn to mind my own business?
I vowed then and there that I’d never ever meddle in her personal life again. Well, anyway, not for a long, long time. Chapter 43
Ellen and I had never had words before—at least, not like this. And it was making me nuts. I considered giving her a call on Saturday morning, but I was afraid she’s ream me out some more or even refuse to talk to me altogether—
both of which, looking back, I realize would have been totally unlike her. But anyway, I took the cowardly route, persuading myself it would be better to wait a couple of days and give her a chance to cool off a little. Pat Martucci phoned me late Saturday afternoon. Her latest, Peter Castle (yes, the guy with the Crazy for You tickets), was out of town for the day. And she wanted to know how I felt about dinner and a movie. I said I felt fine about it. I was getting pretty tired of staring at the four yellowing white walls.
When I got home from my night out with Pat, there was a message on the machine: ‘‘Aunt Dez? Please call me.’’
I checked my watch: twelve-fifteen. Damn! It was too late to get back to her tonight; I’d call first thing in the morning.
But on Sunday I wound up sleeping until after ten, and Ellen was already out of the apartment when I tried reach
ing her.
I wasn’t able to get her that entire afternoon, and in the evening there was something else I had to give some thought to: Tomorrow was March 23.
Now, all along, I’d planned to check and see if Bromley came home on Sunday night— tonight—instead of on Mon
day the twenty-third, when she was actually scheduled to return. But suddenly I was having second thoughts. If I did find her in, there was a good chance—make that a nearcertainty—Fielding would not take too kindly to it, particu
larly in view of last Sunday night’s disaster. I could just picture his reaction if he and Corcoran showed up at the
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
253
woman’s apartment tomorrow and she said, ‘‘Oh, I just gave that information to this private detective, Desiree somebody-or-other.’’ So, after making every effort to con
tact her this week, I was going to back off. Anyway, there really wasn’t any need for me to talk to Bromley person
ally; I had no doubt Tim would relay whatever it was she had to say. Besides, I could always follow up myself if for some reason I felt I needed to.
Less than fifteen minutes after I’d become convinced of the wisdom of this decision, I picked up the phone and called her anyway. But her machine was still spewing out the same lie it had been repeating for more than a month now.
Well, I was getting a little hungry by then, so I whipped up one of my refrigerator omelets—this one with salami, scallions, mushrooms, green beans, and tomato. And after I’d finished eating, I gave Bromley another try.
‘‘Hello,’’ said the breathy, little-girl voice that had be
come so familiar to me by now. I couldn’t believe it! Was this really Charlotte Bromley herself—in the flesh?
‘‘Hello?’’ the voice said again.
‘‘Ms. Bromley?’’ I finally got out.
‘‘That’s right; who’s this?’’
I proceeded carefully. It was possible that Charlotte Bromley, having
been abroad for so long, might not even be aware of the tragedy. ‘‘My name is Desiree Shapiro,’’ I told her. ‘‘I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to talk to you about the Foster twins. It would only take a few minutes.’’
‘‘Mary Ann and Meredith? Why? Is something wrong?’’
she asked, uneasily.
‘‘If I can just come over for a little while, I’ll explain everything.’’
‘‘Can’t you tell me what it’s about on the phone?’’
‘‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea. Look, I wouldn’t trouble you the day you got back from vacation if it wasn’t important.’’
‘‘All right,’’ she agreed. ‘‘How soon can you get here?’’
‘‘In about an hour. Is that all right?’’
‘‘Okay, but please try to make it earlier if you can. I’ve had a long trip, and I haven’t been feeling too well.’’
I promised to be there as quickly as I could.
I threw on my clothes, grabbed my wig, my hair spray,
254
Selma Eichler
and my cosmetic bag, and in fifteen minutes I was sitting in a taxi headed downtown.
Now, normally I would probably have been a basket case
trying to anticipate what lay ahead in my meeting with Bromley. But not then. I was too busy struggling to put myself together under the kind of conditions you can’t imagine—unless you’ve been in a New York City cab, that is.
Anyway, I had quite a ride that night. I don’t think we missed one pothole between East Eighty-second and West Twentieth streets—and we were going at a clip worthy of the Indy 500. But even with my wig bouncing up and down
in my lap, I somehow managed to make it look semipre
sentable. And then I cemented the results with the manda
tory megadose of hair spray, which prompted the driver to turn almost completely around in his seat, narrowly missing a passing bus. ‘‘Hey, take it easy, lady,’’ Moe Bittner ad
monished. ‘‘You trying to asphyxiate me? Didn’t you ever hear of those aerosol pump things?’’
I apologized meekly (in Bittner’s hands, that taxi was an extremely dangerous weapon) and carefully adjusted the hairpiece to my head. Then I was ready to apply my makeup.
Murder Can Ruin Your Looks Page 29
