Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (16 page)

‘‘Roger Hyer?’’

At last! ‘‘How do you spell that?’’ I pounced.

Foster spelled the name for me. ‘‘I only met Hyer once,’’

he went on to say. ‘‘The three of us had tea at the Savoy.’’

‘‘What did you think of him?’’

‘‘Not very much, I’m afraid. Hyer’s a weasel. He’d been married twice but never mentioned a word about it to Mary Ann. He’s also disgustingly full of himself. I guess I didn’t approve of either of my sisters’ choices.’’ Then he put in hastily, ‘‘Former choices, I should say.’’

‘‘What else can you tell me about this Hyer?’’

‘‘Only that he has money—he’s an investment counselor and a very successful one, apparently. And I can tell you that he considers himself something of a Don Juan and that he doesn’t look you straight in the eye when he talks to you.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives, would you?’’ This past week had taught me I couldn’t exactly rely on Peter’s recollection of things.

‘‘Let me think for a moment. . . .’’

‘‘Was it Hillside, New Jersey?’’

‘‘That sounds right.’’

I silently begged my client’s pardon. But I was

premature.

‘‘No, that wasn’t it,’’ Foster amended a couple of seconds later. ‘‘It wasn’t Hillside; it was
Hillsdale
. Hillsdale, New Jersey.’’

‘‘Thank you, Mr. Foster; thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.’’ I struggled to my feet. ‘‘I’ve just about run out of questions, you’ll be happy to hear.’’ He started to protest, but I cut off his gallant effort, quickly covering myself with: ‘‘For now, anyway.’’

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He got the idea. ‘‘Well, if any other questions
should
occur to you,’’ he said, rising, ‘‘you can ring me either here or at the office.’’ He took a business card from his wallet and wrote down the phone numbers.

‘‘You’ll be around for a while, I suppose,’’ I remarked when he held the card out to me. It was an offhand com

ment, but Foster’s face darkened and something frightening suddenly appeared in his eyes. When he spoke, however, it was in his normal tone of voice.

‘‘That’s something you can depend on, Ms. Shapiro,’’ he said. ‘‘Even if the police should allow me to leave—which I very much doubt—I have no intention of going home until I find out which of my sisters is lying in that hospital. And just who the bastard is who put them
both
where they are today.’’

Chapter 12

About two minutes after I walked in the door that night, I called New Jersey information for Roger Hyer’s number. It was a little before nine-thirty.

The first time I dialed, Hyer’s line was busy. So I figured it might be a good time to touch base with Peter. The conversation was brief. I found out there was no news at the hospital, and
he
found out there was no news at my end, either.

Then I tried Hyer again. And got a busy signal again. I kept trying him on and off for the next forty-five minutes. Finally I had the bright idea of checking with the opera

tor—something that would have occurred to anyone with at least a normal amount of intelligence a good half hour earlier—and was informed that the receiver was off the hook.

Okay. If that was the case, I might as well relax for a while. I decided to do my relaxing at the kitchen table with that cup of coffee I’d promised myself earlier, accompanied, of course, by what was left of the lemon souffle´—which, by the way, was still so sensational I came close to going into mourning when it was gone.

At about ten of eleven, I took one last stab at Hyer.

‘‘Hello,’’ said a deep, resonant male voice. You can’t imagine how sexy he made that word sound.

‘‘Is this Roger Hyer?’’

‘‘It is.’’

I told him who I was and apologized for calling so late, explaining that I’d been trying to reach him for over an hour but that his phone had been off the hook.

‘‘I know; sometimes I find that necessary,’’ Hyer re

sponded with this salacious little chuckle that left no doubt as to his meaning.

‘‘Uh, I . . . um . . . suppose you’ve heard about Mary Ann

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and Meredith Foster being shot,’’ I began. (I
hate
it when anyone goes out of their way to get me flustered—and succeeds.)

‘‘I read about it in the papers,’’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘‘Look, let me save you some trouble. I haven’t seen either of them since we—since Mary Ann—called off our

engagement.’’

‘‘I’d still like to come out and talk to you. Maybe—’’

‘‘There’s really no point in it,’’ he interrupted. ‘‘There’s absolutely nothing I can tell you.’’

‘‘That’s what everyone always thinks, but you’d be sur

prised at what you know that you don’t—’’

‘‘The answer is no,’’ Hyer said decisively. And quite rudely, too.

I tried appealing to the man’s sense of morality. ‘‘I’m aware that you and Mary Ann didn’t part on the best of terms,’’ I told him, ‘‘but I’m sure you wouldn’t want the person who shot her—maybe even
killed
her—to get off scot-free.’’

‘‘I’d rather that didn’t happen, of course. But to be bru

tally honest, catching whoever it was who attacked my exfianceé and her sister isn’t really a top priority of mine. In other words, Miz . . . ?’’

‘‘Shapiro. Desiree Shapiro.’’

‘‘In other words, Miz Desiree Shapiro, since I can’t help you—and you’ll just have to take my word that that’s true—I’m not about to waste my time and yours on a meet

ing that will, believe me, prove fruitless.’’

‘‘Look, Mr. Hyer, since I’m a
private
investigator, you don’t
have
to meet with me. But the police are anxious to talk to you, too; in fact, they’ll be getting in touch with you soon.’’ (I had my fingers crossed that they hadn’t already tracked him down and questioned him.) ‘‘And I’m working

very closely with the homicide detective who’s in charge of this case,’’ I said in this quasi-confidential tone. ‘‘If I’m satisfied you had nothing to do with the shootings, it could make a difference in the way the police view you.’’

I steeled myself for an explosion, but, unexpectedly, Hyer laughed. ‘‘Well, well,’’ he said, ‘‘it seems that the lady P.I. isn’t above a little blackmail, now, is she?’’

‘‘Wait just a—’’

‘‘It’s okay,’’ he assured me pleasantly. ‘‘I like your spunk. I happen to have a dinner date in Manhattan Friday eve

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ning. Suppose I meet you for a drink beforehand. Around seven.’’ He wasn’t
asking
. ‘‘Let’s make it the Plaza. The Oak Room. I’ll be wearing a navy suit with a navy and red polka dot tie.’’ Before I had a chance to mention
my
ward

robe, he concluded with, ‘‘And be on time.’’ Then the phone went dead.

On Wednesday morning, I called New Delhi Imports

and, after being transferred four times, was finally put through to a Mr. Selby in personnel who had an annoyingly unctuous manner and talked through his nose. I told Selby I was with Cosgrove, Ltd. (a classy name, I thought), and that I was verifying the employment of a Mr. Eric Foster in connection with a purchase he intended making at our store. I was informed that not only was Mr. Foster a vice president of the firm, but an extremely valued employee who had been with New Delhi for almost fifteen years.

‘‘Uh, just what did you say was the nature of the pur

chase that Mr. Foster is contemplating?’’ Selby asked nosily in his oil-slick voice.

I was sorely tempted to say ‘‘A Concorde jet’’ but settled for ‘‘I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to give out that infor

mation’’ and clicked off.

Actually, I could have predicted what I’d find out from New Delhi. Eric Foster was too smart to lie about a thing like his employment. Still, it was something I couldn’t
not
follow up on, if you know what I mean.

At about twenty after eleven, I left the office and stopped in at this little grocery store on the next street, which is famous in at least a two-block radius for its homemade chicken soup. (I never promised Collins I’d be the one at home doing the making, did I?) I picked up two quarts of the soup, a quarter of a pound each of roast beef and sliced turkey, half a pound of potato salad, a rye bread with cara

way seeds, and a half dozen pieces of the most
unbelievable
apple strudel. After all, even if Collins turned out to be too sick for dessert, there was nothing wrong with
my
health. I arrived at the actress’s Soho loft at ten of twelve, but that day my being early worked out just fine. Collins lived on the fourth floor, and I had only one way of reaching her: on foot (although by the time I made it up those four long,
long
flights to her apartment, I was practically on my

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hands and knees). And I don’t have to tell you that I didn’t break any speed records negotiating all those stairs, do I?

Especially since I had to sit down and rest three times be

tween the third and fourth landings.

As soon as she opened the door, you could tell the woman was not exactly in the pink—except for her nose, that is, which was closer to crimson. Her skin was chalky, her eyes vacant and watery. Even the beautiful auburn hair I’d so shamelessly coveted during our last meeting was stringy and disheveled. And, to add to this lovely picture, she had on a soiled gray flannel robe that was just begging for a spin in the washing machine. All in all, just then, Lucille Collins was not a beautiful thing to behold.

‘‘Come on in,’’ she said. This was punctuated by a hack

ing cough that absolutely ruined the impact of her wonder

fully husky voice. I quickly accepted the invitation, literally falling into a chair.

‘‘I dropped off to sleep again,’’ she explained. ‘‘I think I’d better go and repair the damage.’’ With that, she re

treated to the bathroom.

While I was struggling to catch my breath, I glanced around the huge space that served as Collins’s living room, bedroom, and kitchen. The white brick walls were covered with photographs—many of them of the actress herself—

along with playbills and other theater memorabilia. I would have liked a closer look, but that would have required lift

ing myself out of the chair, which I was definitely not up to at the moment. I contented myself with taking an inven

tory of the rest of the loft.

The scarred wooden floor was bare (and in dire need of a sweeping, too). And there was surprisingly little furniture, a fact made even more apparent by the room’s impres

sive dimensions.

Hugging one wall was a dark blue sofa bed, now open and covered with rumpled white sheets topped with a dingy yellow blanket that was strewn with crumpled tissues. There was a large wicker wastebasket in front of the sofa, a sizable portion of its contents—mostly used tissues, from what I could see—overflowing onto the floor. Adjacent to the sofa was a battered wooden end table which hosted a tall, chipped, blue china lamp—and still
more
tissues. Completing this unattractive grouping was a single

Queen Anne–style chair—which I was extremely grateful

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to at present—upholstered in a grungy tweed that might have originally been beige but whose color was now any

body’s guess.

On the long wall opposite the sofa, there was only a small chrome and Formica kitchen table that stood in the corner along with two chrome chairs that had torn vinyl seats. A tiny Pullman kitchen with grimy, discolored fix

tures was recessed into the short wall next to the table and chairs.

I took a look behind me at the only other items in the place. In front of a large triple window at the far end of the loft was a shiny new exercise bike surrounded by five or six bulging cartons. The cartons had me wondering whether Ms. Collins was coming or going.

The sound of footsteps interrupted my speculations, and I turned back around to face a much more presentable Lucille Collins.

She had changed to a fresh, clean robe, and her long hair was pulled neatly back and tied with a ribbon. Her eyes seemed clearer, too. She’d even applied some lipstick and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a little something to her cheeks. Only the scarlet nose remained to attest to her debilitated state. Obviously, Collins had noticed I’d been staring at the cartons. Either that or she always felt that an explanation was necessary for new visitors. ‘‘I haven’t gotten around to unpacking yet,’’ she said.