Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (17 page)

‘‘Oh, did you just move in?’’

‘‘About eight months ago,’’ she answered without even blushing.

There was no resistance when I suggested she relax while

I got our lunch ready. ‘‘Thanks, I’d appreciate it; I feel like shit.’’ A loud honk into a crinkled tissue followed by a prolonged and wracking cough attested to the words. ‘‘I don’t know when I’ve had a worse cold,’’ she complained, crawling back into bed.

From her horizontal position, she provided instructions on where everything could be found, and I went about heating the soup, putting up the teakettle, and setting the table. Then, while I was waiting for the water to boil, I attacked—over the mildest of protests from my hostess—

what looked like a week’s worth of dirty dishes in the sink. But don’t give me credit for being a good Samaritan or anything. I only did it because, frankly, that greasy, food

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encrusted mess had the potential to ruin my appetite. (And if you saw
my
apartment, you’d know that I’m not exactly a fanatic about cleanliness, either.)

We sat down to lunch a few minutes later, and Collins managed to do justice to everything—including the strudel. (Anyone who could pack in food the way she did, I de

cided, could have found the strength to rinse off a few dishes.)

Anyway, I let the woman eat in peace, but after I’d poured us both a second cup of tea, her immunity was over.

‘‘Let’s talk about the night the twins were shot,’’ I said. Collins nodded.

‘‘What time did you get home?’’

‘‘After seven sometime. I can’t tell you just when.’’ With that, she began to cough. And cough. It was so intense and went on for so long that I started to get nervous.

‘‘Would you like some water?’’

Shaking her head, she continued hacking away. By the time the cough subsided, the color of Collins’s face matched her nose to a T.

‘‘Have you seen a doctor?’’ I asked. I mean, it was possi

ble the woman had TB or something.

‘‘Oh, no. I don’t need a doctor. I’m a
lot
better than I was,’’ she assured me. ‘‘But I hope I don’t give
you
anything.’’

Amen,
I thought fervently.

‘‘What else did you want to know?’’ Collins was saying, apparently attempting to get things moving again.

I was happy to oblige. ‘‘You stayed in all evening?’’

‘‘Uh-huh. With a book. Just as I told you before.’’

‘‘Can anyone verify that?’’

‘‘Well, a friend called me a few minutes after ten. But I guess that’s too late to provide me with an alibi, isn’t it?’’

Then, looking at me earnestly: ‘‘I had no reason to kill Meredith—much less her sister. Can’t you see that? After all, Meredith didn’t give
herself
that part.’’ Even when not in top mesmerizing form, those eyes of Collins’s were com

pelling enough to swear to her sincerity.

It was time I let her know that
I
knew. ‘‘I understand you and Larry Shields had been going together before he met Meredith,’’ I said meaningfully.

‘‘Yes, but it had actually been over for quite a while by that time. We just hadn’t bothered making it official.’’

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‘‘Were you surprised that Shields and Meredith got back

together again after
their
breakup?’’

‘‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’’ Collins an

swered flatly.

‘‘You don’t know that they split up for about a week?’’

‘‘No. And I’m sure I
would
have known about it if they
had
. Listen, Larry gets tied up in knots when one of his plays first goes into rehearsal. So maybe they didn’t see each other for a few days. Or a week. It’s the way he is.’’

Then she added with this wistful little smile, ‘‘I should know, shouldn’t I?’’

At that point, she began to cough again, even more vio

lently than she had earlier. We sat at the table until the coughing stopped and she was able to swallow a couple of spoonfuls of cough medicine. After that, she went back to bed. I stayed around just long enough to clean up our lunch dishes.

Walking down those four flights of stairs, I had plenty of time to think. And the first thing that occurred to me was that I hadn’t said anything about Shields and Meredith Fos

ter breaking up when the play
first
went
into
rehearsal
. It sounded very much to me as though Lucille Collins had been coached.

You know, the woman was really something. I mean, for

her to be so protective of the man who dumped her.
Unless,
of course, she was hoping to get him back.

But what
really
got to me was that she actually expected me to believe she didn’t resent Meredith Foster one little bit for walking off with the part—and the guy—she wanted. (I didn’t give any credence to that junk about the relation

ship with Shields having cooled before Meredith came into the picture—at least, not as far as Collins was concerned.) Hey, if I accepted what Lucille Collins was trying to sell me, I’d have to regard her as some kind of saint. And I just couldn’t picture a saint living in such a dirty apartment. Chapter 13

By the time I made it down to street level, I was bone tired. No doubt due to all that enforced exercise. So even though it wasn’t much after two-thirty, I figured I’d forget about going back to the office and knock off work early, for a change.

There was no trouble at all getting a cab. It was an off hour; besides, the day was sunny and not too cold, unsea

sonably warm for February, in fact. I was home by three and in bed ten minutes later, determined to take a nap before my seven o’clock dinner with Stuart. The alarm was set for four-thirty, which would give me plenty of time to get ready.

I woke up with a start to the insistent ringing of the telephone.

‘‘Yo, sweet li’l baby,’’ a young male voice said. Unfortunately, I had not been anyone’s sweet li’l baby for quite a while, and I politely told Romeo as much. After we said our good-byes—or, at least, after I’d said mine—I looked over at the clock. It was five forty-five. God bless Romeo, whoever he was!

I bolted out of bed, cursing myself for forgetting to pull out that little plug on the alarm clock.

Well, there’d be no leisurely bubble bath tonight. I set

tled for a quick shower and then set some kind of speed record for applying my makeup. Naturally, I wound up with even more smudges than usual under my eyes, and it took me longer to get through with my face than if I’d taken the time to do it right in the first place.

I devoted the next fifteen minutes to fussing with my hair. But, for me, fifteen minutes wasn’t that terrible; I’ve been known to wrestle with this hair of mine—which defi

nitely has a mind of its own—for close to an hour. Anyway, when I was satisfied that the results weren’t god-awful, I

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let loose with half a dozen extremely liberal spritzes of extra-extra-hold. By the time I was finished, even a tornado couldn’t have coaxed a single strand out of place. Now I was ready to get dressed.

I was planning on wearing this almost-new royal blue silk that the saleslady had insisted made me look practically sylphlike. Of course, I didn’t believe
that
for a minute. Still, I did love the dress.

I stepped into it carefully, buttoned a couple of buttons, and checked myself out in the full-length mirror. As I stood there admiring my reflection, I saw it: a spot just below my left breast!

It was only a small spot, really; I doubt that anyone would have noticed it. The trouble was, though, that
I
knew it was there. You see, I’ve got this
thing
about neatness—

when it comes to personal grooming, that is. I guess it’s because of my weight. I mean, there’s nothing I can do about someone referring to me as fat (although I much prefer ‘‘full figured’’ or ‘‘well rounded’’ or even ‘‘amply proportioned’’). But I refuse to give anyone a reason for calling me fat and
sloppy
.

Well, I did have another choice—the pale gray wool. Which was really very pretty and very appropriate.
But
which went on over my head.

I can’t tell you how slowly and painstakingly I eased myself into that dress. And when I was through, there wasn’t a wisp of hair out of place. There was an entire section standing straight on end! And, what was worse, I couldn’t even run a comb through that sticky mess!

By then it was ten of seven, so I knew Stuart—who’s ridiculously prompt—would already have left the office. I called the restaurant with the message for him that I’d be a
little
late. Which was definitely a case of optimism tri

umphing over experience.

After that, I got out my wig and was relieved to find that it was actually quite presentable. I only had to expend ten minutes or so of really concerted effort to make it look almost as good as it had when I’d taken it out of the closet. When I finally left the apartment, it was past seven-thirty. And I was in so much of a hurry I forgot to put on the new gold-plated earrings with the faux pearl stones that I’d bought especially for the occasion.

*

*

*

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Ennio and Michael’s, Ellen’s excellent recommendation, is all the way downtown in Greenwich Village, so I showed up more than an hour late. Which really unnerved me. But

in spite of that, it turned out to be a really lovely evening. The restaurant itself was attractive and comfortable. And I can say the same about Stuart. Not only is he tall and blond and good-looking and one of the most considerate people you’d ever want to meet, he’s also great company. I’m really amazed that no one’s snapped him up in all this time since his divorce. (But don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.)

We started off by toasting his birthday with a very nice burgundy. (Stuart rarely indulges in anything alcoholic, but he finally gave in to my completely spurious argument that no one over eighteen has any business celebrating a birth

day without a good bottle of wine.) With the wine, we ordered some fried zucchini, and it was as crispy and deli

cious as Ellen had assured me it would be. My entreé was the veal Sorrentino, which Ellen had just about insisted I try, while Stuart had the veal parmigiana, and we were both extremely pleased with our choices.

As always with Stuart, conversation was easy and ani

mated. He didn’t even mention my getting my papers to

gether so he could start on my taxes, something he’d been after me about practically since the first of the year. (Maybe he figured it was unsportsmanlike to badger someone who’s

picking up the tab for your birthday dinner.) Anyway, we were having this heated argument about a best-selling mys

tery we’d both read recently. I was going on and on about how much I’d enjoyed it, while Stuart was contending that it was highly overrated. That discussion ended abruptly when he proclaimed, not too softly and with a straight face, ‘‘You know, it doesn’t make you an authority on murder just be

cause you’ve got one or two of your own under your belt.’’

The woman at the next table, who had been listening intently to our conversation (and don’t ask me why; it wasn’t all that interesting), stared at me with an expression I can’t possibly describe but which sent Stuart and me into prolonged spasms of laughter.

When we’d both sufficiently recovered, Stuart said, ‘‘That reminds me. You haven’t told me about this new case of yours.’’

I filled him in, very briefly, and when I was through, he

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whistled softly under his breath. ‘‘You’ve sure got yourself a weird one this time,’’ he remarked.

Since I really needed a break from things, even if it was only for a few hours, I wasn’t anxious to get into any big dis

cussions just then. So when he started to comment further, I quickly asked—because I couldn’t think of anything else to say—‘‘Have you been to any good movies lately?’’ The minute it was out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe I’d said it. I mean, talk about inane—to say nothing of obvious—remarks!

I began to apologize, but Stuart cut me off. ‘‘Listen, I know how you feel. You don’t hear me talking about Schedule Cs tonight, do you? But I
would
like to say one thing, if it’s okay.’’ He was looking at me for permission, and I felt like a prize jackass.