Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (12 page)

She didn’t say anything more for a few moments, but I watched the brief lightheartedness evaporate. And when she spoke again, it was to speculate sadly, ‘‘I think maybe the real reason Meredith was more dominant has to do with all she went through. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but she lost her husband just this past year, and a tragedy like that can make you grow up pretty damned fast.’’

‘‘I heard about that.’’

‘‘He was very ill for a while, too, before he died. And Meredith
devoted
herself to his care. Not that she ever com

plained; she never even mentioned it. But Mary Ann told me how rough things had been for Meredith right before they came to New York.’’

I got around to my standard question then: ‘‘Can you think of any reason someone might have wanted to harm either of them?’’

‘‘God, no! Is there any chance it could have been a plain ordinary robbery?’’ Lydia asked hopefully.

‘‘The police more or less ruled out that possibility.’’

‘‘This is all so . . . so . . .
unbelievable,
’’ she said, sniffling.

‘‘I still can’t believe it happened.’’ That called for another bunch of tissues.

I gave her a little time to blow her nose before I asked,

‘‘Would you happen to know if either of them had any other close friends?’’

‘‘Well, there’s Peter, of course. Poor guy. I’ve been talk

ing to him regularly to find out how . . . uh . . .
she’s
doing in the hospital. He doesn’t even sound like the same per

son anymore.’’

‘‘Anyone else?’’

‘‘That director boyfriend of Meredith’s—Larry some

body; I met him once at the apartment. They were also pretty friendly with a couple of people in the building. Some guy down the hall—I’m
positive
he’s gay—and a woman who lives upstairs. I don’t remember
his
name, but hers is Claire. Now, let me think, what was the last name?’’

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‘‘I was able to supply it, courtesy of Peter’s list. Josephs. Claire Josephs.’’

‘‘That’s it.’’

‘‘What about Roger, Mary Ann’s ex-fiance´?’’

Lydia’s eyes flew open. ‘‘This is the first I’ve heard that there
was
an ex-fiance´.’’

She left a few minutes—and a few more tissues—later. I got one last view of the Brodsky rear end before she put on her coat.

The sight, a living reminder of my own ample dimen

sions, really unnerved me. As soon as she walked out, I headed straight for the freezer. I wasn’t myself again until my second portion of Haägen-Dazs Macadamia Brittle. Peter called around eight, just as I was finishing dinner.

‘‘How did you make out at the emergency room last night?’’ he asked.

‘‘Nothing,’’ I said, briefly explaining what had happened to the girls’ clothing.

‘‘I’ve been putting off this call all day,’’ he confessed.

‘‘Even though I kept checking my machine and telling my

self that if you had any news, good
or
bad, you’d have left a message.’’

‘‘You
know
I’d have gotten in touch with you if I had anything to report,’’ I verified.

‘‘Have you spoken to Eric yet?’’

‘‘Not yet. I tried him this morning and again around six, but he wasn’t in his room.’’

‘‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to reach any of the friends.’’

‘‘As a matter of fact, Lydia Brodsky was here this afternoon.’’

‘‘Did you find out anything?’’

‘‘I can’t really tell
what
I found out at this point. Cer

tainly nothing dramatic. She mentioned, though, that you’d asked Mary Ann to join you and a friend for dinner that night.’’

‘‘Uh-huh. My old college roommate was in from Maine. But Mary Ann had already made these arrangements with Lydia.’’ Then he added poignantly, ‘‘You know, when the police told me about her being shot in her apartment like that, I thought at first that they’d made a mistake, that it

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wasn’t Mary Ann at all. I was
sure
she wasn’t even home when it . . . happened.’’

‘‘So you and your friend had dinner, just the two of you?’’ I asked quickly, unwilling to let him dwell on that ultimately tragic change of plans.

‘‘Right.’’ There was a pause before he whispered:

‘‘Unfortunately.’’

‘‘Peter, do you have any idea if Mary Ann told anyone—

besides you, I mean—about making that date with Lydia?’’

‘‘Just Eric, I think. He wanted to get together with her that night, too. But when she couldn’t make it, they decided to have lunch on Tuesday.’’

Now,
that
was interesting. . . .

‘‘Listen, Desiree,’’ Peter was saying, ‘‘I haven’t had any

thing to eat all day. And if I don’t grab a bite soon, I’m going to start chewing on the telephone wire.’’

‘‘Oh, then I won’t keep you.’’ But, of course, he didn’t get away that easily. ‘‘Are you calling from the hospital?’’

I wanted to know.

‘‘No, I just got home.’’

‘‘How was she today?’’

‘‘Holding her own, the doctor says.’’

‘‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for,’’ I told him.

‘‘Now go eat, and I’ll talk to you soon.’’

We hung up, and I spent a few minutes bracing myself for the exciting event I’d planned for the remainder of the evening: tearing my apartment apart. The necessity for this had evolved because Charmaine, my every-other-week

cleaning woman, had failed to show up for so many weeks that I’d lost track of which week she was due. And while I’d been filling in for her myself on a fairly regular basis, I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly committed to my work. That night, however, I made up my mind to devote myself body and soul to dispelling the dust, mopping the floors, and scrubbing the toilet.

After all, it wouldn’t do to have Will think that Ellen came from a dirty family.

I got up early on Sunday morning to prepare my doahead dishes. By a little past one, I was out of the kitchen and just getting ready to set up the folding table in the living room. That’s when Ellen called.

‘‘I need your help, Aunt Dez.’’

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‘‘Sure. What’s up?’’

‘‘I can’t decide what to wear tonight. I’ve narrowed it down to the blue wool or my black ribbed turtleneck with the black leather skirt.’’

‘‘Gee, I don’t know. You look good in both.’’

‘‘You’re a big help.’’

I made up my mind. ‘‘The blue, I think; it’s a great color for you.’’

‘‘I was kind of leaning that way myself. Thanks.’’

Ellen showed up at seven-fifteen that night—in the black

leather outfit. But that was okay. She looked really cute. Will Fitzgerald was at my door at seven-thirty, right on schedule. He was carrying a large bouquet of flowers which, I have to admit, really impressed me. But the minute I introduced him to Ellen, I could see from his expression that they would not be heading for the altar.

Now, as I said, Ellen looked very cute. But then, Ellen
is
cute: tall (from where I stand, five-six is tall) and boyishly slim, with large dark eyes, silky brown hair, and a lovely smile. I think she resembles Audrey Hepburn. Maybe not a
lot,
but a little, anyway. Besides, all Will had said was that he was interested in meeting a nice girl; he didn’t list any physical requirements.

At that moment, though, I was pretty positive that Will’s idea of ‘‘nice’’ was 38-24-36.

I served the hors d’oeuvres—a wonderful baked clam dish and these tiny mushroom tarts for which just about
everyone
requests the recipe. Then I left it to Ellen to see to the drinks while I went to check on dinner. From the kitchen, I could hear Ellen trying to make conversation and Will responding in monosyllables.

I basted the rib roast, gritting my teeth. I’d decided on prime ribs because I knew Will was a meat eater—he was always scarfing down hamburgers at his desk. With the meat, we’d be having Yorkshire pudding with horseradish sauce, a potato and cheese casserole, and a large salad with a tasty vinaigrette dressing. A really nice menu, I thought.
Too
nice for Will Fitzgerald.

When I returned to the living room, Will was devoting himself entirely to the hors d’oeuvres, and Ellen was sitting there with this tiny, pathetic smile plastered on her face, bravely trying to cover her feelings of rejection. Things got even worse at dinner when Will made an at

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tempt at humor. ‘‘You should have another helping of pota

toes,’’ he told Ellen. ‘‘The way you are now, if a man jumped your bones, that’s what he’d get: bones.’’ (Did I say
humor
?) His accompanying laugh was almost as offen

sive as the remark.

Ellen turned crimson.
Oh,
God,
I thought,
how
can
she
ever
forgive
me
for
Will.
How
can
I
ever
forgive
me
for
Will?

Did I want to tell that bastard off! But that would have made things even worse for Ellen than they already were. So I restrained myself with what, let me assure you, was a superhuman effort.

The meal seemed interminable. The one break we had was that there was no need to even attempt polite conversa

tion. Will, you see, was interested only in the food, shovel

ing down almost mind-boggling quantities.

Finally, the end was in sight.

My delightful dinner guest was just finishing his second helping of cold lemon souffle´—which is my
most
special dessert and which I was sincerely hoping he would choke on (and there’s
no
way
I’d have rendered the Heimlich maneuver, either). Ellen was on her third cup of coffee. And I was seriously contemplating pouring a fourth for myself. Suddenly there was this loud beep, which, in a room so heavy with silence, sounded more like a siren. Ellen spilled her coffee, and I, steel-nerved soul that I am, damned near suffered a coronary.

‘‘My beeper!’’ Will exclaimed, removing same from his pants pocket. ‘‘Do you mind if I use your phone?’’ he asked politely.

I directed him to the one in the bedroom, more to get him out of my sight for a few minutes than to afford him any privacy. But he insisted on making the call from the living room.

‘‘What’s up?’’ he said into the receiver. This was followed about two minutes later by a disbelieving ‘‘You’re kid

ding!’’ and then, in rapid succession, by a shouted ‘‘Of course not!’’ a strangled ‘‘Christ!’’ and an authoritative

‘‘Call the cops!’’ He concluded with a brusque ‘‘I’ll be right home,’’ slamming down the phone.

Now, somewhere between the ‘‘You’re kidding!’’ and the

‘‘I’ll be right home,’’ it dawned on me that this crisis of Fitzgerald’s was a little something he’d cooked up in ad

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vance. You know, to use as an escape hatch if it should turn out he wanted one. I sneaked a look at Ellen, and I could tell that, unfortunately, she’d caught on, too.

‘‘That was my next-door neighbor,’’ Fitzgerald was say

ing. ‘‘Apparently someone’s broken into my apartment. Jules—my neighbor—heard a lot of noise coming from the place, and he knew I wasn’t home. He wanted to check and see if I had someone staying there before he called the police.’’ It wasn’t a bad performance, really. He was even managing to sound a little breathless, almost like he was hyperventilating. A pretty nice touch.

Without commenting, I quickly got him his coat.

‘‘As much as I’d like to stay,’’ he told us as he hurriedly put it on, ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t have any choice.’’ A rueful smile flitted across his troubled, lying face.

I glanced anxiously over at Ellen again, hoping she’d be able to control her tears until that S.O.B. got the hell out of the apartment. I needn’t have worried. My niece rose to the occasion magnificently, handling her humiliation in a manner that I’d have sworn was not even in her nature. (But, as I said before, with Ellen, you just never know.) Jumping up from the table, she rushed over to Will and held out her hand. As soon as he took it, she looked di

rectly into his eyes. ‘‘I just thought I should tell you,’’ she said, sounding cool and sophisticated and totally sincere,

‘‘how interesting it was to meet you. I hope you won’t be offended, though, if I ask a favor of you.’’