As soon as I started, Bittner took a corner on two wheels, and half a bottle of foundation spilled over into my lap. For my next trick, I managed to mascara my chin. (And to remove the stuff, I practically had to rub myself raw, too.) What’s more, I never did get my lipstick on straight. I settled when some of it, at least, wound up below my nose.
On the positive side, though, we made good time— unbe
lievably good time, in fact.
When we stopped in front of Bromley’s building, Moe Bittner swiveled around again, this time to critique my la
bors. ‘‘You need a little practice with that lipstick, lady. You should do like my wife does: Use a lip pencil for the outline, then take a brush and fill in the rest. You’ll get a much neater result that way; you’ll see.’’
A couple of minutes later, I was standing at the curb in a cloud of gas fumes. And that’s when reality hit. It came to me in a rush that I might finally have the answer I’d been so anxious for.
And I was scared stiff.
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*
*
*
Going up in the elevator, I finally acknowledged the one
contingency I’d been banishing from my mind since I first heard about that amethyst ring: Suppose the twin in the hospital had borrowed her sister’s ring that day?
Sisters did that sort of thing all the time, didn’t they?
What’s more, if that was common practice with the twins, it would account for no one’s being quite sure who the ring belonged to.
Stop it, I commanded myself. After all, it was highly un
likely Mary Ann would have put on her sister’s ring when all she was doing was having dinner with a friend after work that night. Or that Meredith wore Mary Ann’s ring just to go to rehearsal. And besides, the girls’ tastes were really totally different.
By the time I rang Charlotte Bromley’s doorbell, I’d managed, once again, to bury that extremely troublesome thought.
I estimated Bromley to be in her late thirties. Short and chunky, with long brown hair and a face like a full moon, she was dressed in a peasant-style blouse and a voluminous three-tiered cotton skirt that emphasized her far-from
svelte proportions. But the most noticeable thing about her was her accessories. I mean, the woman was a walking showcase of her handiwork. Decorating her person were a huge pair of triangular, shoulder-length earrings set with semiprecious stones, one very large silver pin, more than a half dozen rings, two armfuls of bangle bracelets in varying widths and styles, and three good-sized necklaces—one with a handsome bronze pendant that nestled between her ample breasts.
Bromley’s artistic bent, however, did not extend to her living room, which was carelessly furnished with what looked like Salvation Army rejects. As soon as I’d settled myself into the almost springless sofa, she looked at me apprehensively. ‘‘You wanted to talk to me about Mary Ann and Meredith,’’ she said in that breathy way of hers.
‘‘Uh, yes. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible tragedy, Ms. Bromley.’’ She immediately sat up straighter, seeming to steel herself, as I proceeded to narrate, as delicately as I could, the events connected with the shootings that left one of her friends dead and the other critically wounded. By
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the time I was through, Charlotte Bromley’s face was ashen and she was clutching at her chest. She opened her mouth as if struggling to say something, but no words came out. My first thought was that she was in the throes of a heart attack. But in a moment her hand was back in her lap and she was speaking normally—as normally as possible under the circumstances, that is.
‘‘I was going to call Mary Ann in the morning and see if
the three of us could have dinner one night next week,’’ she told me in a hushed tone. ‘‘Oh, God, their own brother . . .’’
Her voice trailed off. ‘‘What kind of an animal is he?’’ she demanded softly an instant later, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘‘Mary Ann was always talking about him, too. And she wrote to him all the time. She even wrote to him about me—although what there was to tell, I have no idea. She said she wanted us to meet.’’ Taking a tissue from the pocket of her skirt at this point, Bromley hastily dried her eyes. Then she seemed to remember something, and she looked at me, perplexed. ‘‘But just why did you want to see me?’’
‘‘There’s a question I have to ask you. You were friendly with both sisters?’’
‘‘That’s right. Although I met Mary Ann first, and I saw her a lot more often. She buys from me—for her shop; I design jewelry.’’
‘‘That’s why I’m here. I think you may be able to help us sort out their identities.’’
‘‘Me? But how?’’
‘‘Did you ever notice either of them wearing a ring of any kind?’’
‘‘Oh, sure,’’ Bromley answered promptly. ‘‘There’s no way I could have missed it! Mary Ann had me design a ring for her a few months ago, and she used to wear it quite often.’’
At last! I was thrilled, elated! But, unfortunately, Bromley continued. ‘‘And Meredith liked the ring so much she had me make one up for her, too.’’
‘‘Are you talking about the same ring?’’ There was now a definite possibility I might slash my wrists.
‘‘That’s right. Which was kind of unusual, I guess, be
cause their tastes weren’t at all alike. I suppose it was be
cause the basic design was so simple that it worked for both of them.’’
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God! Another dead end! I had never known such com
plete and utter frustration. No, it was more than frustra
tion— despair!
And then Charlotte Bromley added one thing more:
‘‘It was only the stones that were different. One had an amethyst and the other was set with a garnet.’’
‘‘Which—’’
But before I could put the question to her, the phone rang, and an apologetic Bromley jumped up and ran to the
adjacent kitchen to answer it, assuring me she’d only be a minute. She was still talking many minutes later.
I was too edgy to just sit there. I got up and began pacing back and forth in front of the sofa. The kitchen was only a few yards away, so I could hear that little-girl voice quite clearly. And it was saying things like ‘‘I’ve got company, Ma; I’ll call you back.’’ And ‘‘We’ll talk about it later.’’
And about three times: ‘‘I’ve really gotta go now, Ma.’’
And then suddenly I didn’t mind waiting for the call to end. In fact, the two of them could stay on that phone all year, for all I cared.
Because now I knew what Charlotte Bromley would be telling me.
Chapter 44
I was sitting on the sofa again by the time Bromley came back into the room. But by then I was no longer as confi
dent as I’d been a few minutes earlier. I needed to hear her confirm my thoughts.
‘‘I’m sorry, that was my mother,’’ she murmured sheep
ishly, taking a seat. ‘‘And I haven’t learned yet how to get her off the phone. You were just about to ask me which ring was which, weren’t you?’’
‘‘I was, but I think I’ve already answered my own ques
tion. The garnet was Meredith’s, wasn’t it?’’
‘‘Why, yes, it was. How did you know?’’
‘‘I remember someone telling me that Meredith was actu
ally born on January thirty-first—right before midnight. So, technically, the garnet would be her birthstone. While Mary Ann didn’t come along until a few minutes later—on Feb
ruary first. And the birthstone for February is an amethyst.’’
(The more trivial the fact, the more likely I am to know it.)
‘‘That’s right, ’’ Bromley said, impressed. ‘‘Meredith didn’t care for amethysts. And s
ince she once mentioned that she was really born in January, I suggested the garnet.’’
And then the jeweler added poignantly, ‘‘Garnets are dark red, you know. And Meredith loved red.’’
I nodded, a picture of the girl’s bedroom springing to mind.
‘‘But just why are the rings so important?’’
‘‘Because the twin that’s in St. Catherine’s was wearing one of those rings the night she was brought in.’’ I an
swered the question in Bromley’s eyes. ‘‘The one with the amethyst; Mary Ann’s the surviving sister.’’ As soon as I said it, I asked to use the phone.
Peter had been waiting long enough to hear those words.
*
*
*
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The instant I was back in my own apartment, I dialed Peter’s number for the second time. (He hadn’t been home
when I tried him from Bromley’s, and I hadn’t left a mess
age.)
When I heard the recorded ‘‘Hello, this is Peter . . .’’
again, I wanted to scream. But, gritting my teeth in frustra
tion, I said, ‘‘Peter, it’s Desiree; call me the second you get in. I have news—the news you’ve been waiting for!’’
I’d barely put down the receiver when I began to worry. Had I mentioned I had something good to tell him—some
thing wonderful, really? I should have been clearer. So, neurotic that I am, I made another call. ‘‘It’s me again, Peter. I don’t think I told you; the news is fantastic!’’
Waiting for Peter to get back to me, I put up some coffee I didn’t really want. And because I hate to have just plain coffee, I paid a visit to the freezer for a little Macadamia Brittle to keep it company. Only a little, you understand; I was much too antsy to actually enjoy it. But it seemed to have a calming effect on me (at least, that’s what I told myself), and I soon made a return trip to the freezer—this time, for a much more generous portion.
The telephone rang when the last spoonful of the
Haägen-Dazs was en route to my mouth. I threw down the
spoon. Peter! In my hurry to talk to him, I managed to trip over my own feet. Only the fortunate placement of the kitchen counter—which I grabbed on to just in time—kept me upright.
‘‘Aunt Dez?’’ the hesitant voice said when I made it to the phone.
Ellen! I’d forgotten all about her! ‘‘Oh, Ellen, I’m so glad you called. I tried reaching you earlier.’’
‘‘I just came in about a half hour ago. I spent the day in Great Neck at my friend Vickie’s—this woman I work with.
Listen, I feel just terrible about the way I acted Friday night.’’
‘‘Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who was at fault. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about embarrassing you like that.’’
‘‘But you meant well. You only did it for me.’’
‘‘I did mean well—you know I’d never hurt you inten
tionally. But I was really very stupid. If I promise to behave from now on, can we just forget it?’’
‘‘No, I’m afraid not.’’
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‘‘Why? What do you mean?’’
Then came the giggle. ‘‘I just spoke to Mike Lynton.’’
‘‘Oh?’’
‘‘He was very nice, too. We talked for about fifteen mi
nutes, and I’m meeting him for drinks Wednesday night.’’
‘‘Ellen!’’ I squealed. ‘‘I am so glad. I just know you’re going to like each other.’’
‘‘Well, even if we don’t, it’s worth a try.’’
‘‘That’s right. And listen, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll bet Peter knows some very—’’
‘‘Aunt Dez!’’
‘‘Not that I would ever approach him,’’ I assured her hastily, ‘‘but if he should happen to say something to me . . .’’
Things were certainly looking up, I decided after Ellen’s news. She had a date with an absolutely darling young man, and you never knew where that could lead. (I caught myself picturing Mike Lynton’s refrigerator filled to capacity with near-empty containers of Chinese food.) Even more im
portant, Peter’s fianceé was alive and, while not exactly well, hopefully on her way. As for me, I had that lovely vacation with Stuart to look forward to.
But I did wish I’d hear from Peter.
The call came at eleven-fifteen. ‘‘Peter!’’ I screeched.
‘‘It’s Mary Ann! The girl in the hospital is Mary Ann!’’
‘‘Are you sure?’’ he asked cautiously.
‘‘Absolutely! I saw Charlotte Bromley tonight. She told me Mary Ann was the one with the amethyst ring—the ring found on the survivor! And you can’t get a better I.D. than that, since Bromley designed that ring for her in the first place!’’
‘‘Thank God!’’ And now he was so exuberant he could barely contain himself. ‘‘I really did know it all along,’’ he told me, seeming to pick up speed with every word, ‘‘but sometimes I was afraid that maybe it was because I wanted it so badly. And then when Larry Shields was at the hospi
tal yesterday, he acted like it was Meredith in that room. But maybe that’s because he wanted it so badly. But any
how, it’s finally official. I can’t even begin to thank you for all your help, Desiree.’’
All at once he started to sob—deep, wrenching sobs that
expelled all the horror and fear he’d kept under rein for
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so long. A moment later, there I was, joining right in with him. (No one ever has to cry alone as long as I’m around.) I couldn’t seem to stop myself, either. Even after Peter had pulled himself together, I was still at it.
I produced a fresh supply of tears when he reported that
this morning Mary Ann remembered something about hav
ing tea in London when she was a child. And I kept right on going when he insisted he was taking me to the Four Seasons for dinner on Friday to celebrate. I didn’t even let up when Peter apologized for making me cry in the first place.
‘‘I really got you started, didn’t I?’’ he said awkwardly.
‘‘I’m sorry I carried on like that. I guess it’s because I’ve been keeping everything bottled up inside me and because I’m so happy it worked out the way it did.’’
‘‘I know,’’ I sniffled, finally managing to compose myself,
‘‘and I’ve been crying because I’m so happy for you. Any
way, I guess we’d both better go get some rest now.’’
‘‘Good idea. I’ll talk to you in the morning. And, well, thanks again, Desiree. For everything.’’
After we hung up, I sat there quietly for a while, think
ing. And I found myself growing more and more depressed.
Was it only minutes ago that I’d rejoiced with Peter over Mary Ann’s survival? And just a couple of hours ago that I’d been feeling so good about everything? At that moment, it was hard to believe. Because, at that moment, I couldn’t seem to shake from my mind the tragedy that was Mere
dith Foster.
And then I started blubbering all over again. But those tears had nothing to do with joy.
I recalled how Meredith had nursed her husband during his losing battle with AIDS. And how she’d always looked after her sister. And I reminded myself of her talent and her dedication to her craft. What sad irony that just when her career seemed to be taking off and there was a caring new man in her life, this had to happen to her. And that’s when, to my mortification, I became aware that I was actually angry with Mary Ann—and furious with
myself for feeling that way. I mean, how dared I, when the poor thing was virtually shackled to a hospital bed, going through such hell!
Really, though, it blew my mind that she’d remained neu
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tral in this feud between her sister and brother. How could she not have sided with Meredith, for God’s sake!
But what was the matter with me, anyway? After all, things turned out just the way I’d wanted them to, hadn’t they? Besides, from everything I’d been told, Mary Ann was a sweet, warm, friendly girl. And just look how ecstatic Peter was now!
Still, I couldn’t help wondering—and not for the first time—if, in real life, there was any such thing as a truly happy ending.
Document Outline
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Murder Can Ruin Your Looks Page 30
