Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (2 page)

‘‘
Really
need it.’’

‘‘What’s wrong?’’

‘‘The woman I was engaged to marry may have been murdered.’’

‘‘
May
have been?’’

‘‘Well, no one’s sure if she’s the one who’s dead or the one who’s in the hospital damned
near
dead. And I
have
to know.’’ Then slowly, haltingly, he began to tell me this horrifying story.

It seems that two days earlier his fianceé and her twin sister had been shot in their Chelsea apartment. And now one was in the morgue, and the other lay in a coma in St. Catherine’s Hospital. ‘‘And nobody can tell which is which,’’ Peter said, his voice cracking. ‘‘Because whoever did this shot them in the face. Both of them.’’

‘‘God! I’m so sorry,’’ I murmured. I rummaged around in my suddenly vacant head for some comforting words and

came up empty. So I just told the truth. ‘‘I wish I knew what to say to you,’’ I admitted weakly.

‘‘I know; it’s okay.’’

‘‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to

harm them?’’

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‘‘None.’’ It came out in a whisper.

‘‘Let me put you in touch with an investigator who—’’

‘‘But I was hoping
you’d
take the case.’’

‘‘I can’t, Peter. I don’t take murder cases.’’

His voice, no doubt bolstered by desperation, was sud

denly stronger. ‘‘You don’t understand. Finding out who committed this . . . this . . . finding out who
did
it is the last thing on my mind right now. All I’m interested in is whether Mary Ann is dead or alive.’’

‘‘Why not wait just a little while? Let’s hope the woman in the hospital regains consciousness soon.’’

‘‘They—the doctors—have no idea when that will be. Or

even
if
it will be. Please, Desiree.’’

I shuddered at the thought of getting embroiled in an

other murder investigation. But here was Peter, who was once almost like family to me and who was now in one of the most terrible situations I could imagine. I just couldn’t bring myself to turn him down. (It also didn’t hurt that those gorgeous blue eyes were looking at me so pleadingly.) So, in the end, I agreed to handle the investigation. After first warning myself I’d have to keep some emotional dis

tance from the proceedings and then stipulating to Peter that my sole purpose would be to establish the identities of the victims. ‘‘I won’t take it any further than that,’’ I said firmly.

‘‘That’s all I’m interested in,’’ my new client assured me. Chapter 2

It was a little after five, and I was full of questions—and very little else. (I’d had a really
tiny
lunch, and that was hours ago.) I took a good look at Peter. His cheeks were definitely hollow; there was no question about that. I was willing to bet he hadn’t had a proper meal since the trag

edy. Or at least what I’d consider proper. (Which has noth

ing whatever to do with a nutritionist’s definition of the word. Or the dictionary’s, either, for that matter.) Very reluctantly, Peter agreed to join me for an early supper at this new deli which had just opened two blocks from my office and which I’d been promising myself to try. Now, from the time my late Jewish New York husband introduced me to delicatessen food when we first started going out, I’ve been addicted to the stuff. In fact, after all these years, I consider myself to be something of an author

ity on the subject. So I was disappointed when, as soon as we sat down, Peter let me know that all he could manage was a little cup of mushroom and barley soup.

Could I allow him to deny himself this ambrosia?

It took work, but I finally coaxed him into following up the soup with a sandwich. We both ordered the pastrami—

overstuffed portions and very tasty, but a little too fatty as far as I was concerned. Along with it, we had cole slaw, french fries, sour tomatoes, and a generous portion of kishka—good, but not nearly as good as the Second Ave

nue Deli’s. All in all, though, the meal wasn’t half bad, and when the waiter came to remove our plates, Peter’s looked like it had just walked out of the dishwasher.

‘‘I guess I was hungry, after all,’’ he admitted sheepishly. It was time to get down to business. And since the restau

rant wasn’t too crowded, it seemed as good a place as any.

‘‘Tell me about the twins,’’ I said. And, over coffee and three or four refills, Peter obliged.

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Mary Ann and Meredith Foster, he told me, had moved to this country from London about six months ago, soon after Meredith’s husband died. ‘‘Meredith still uses her maiden name because she’s an actress and her husband had

this long Italian name,’’ Peter explained. ‘‘It began with a
C,
I think. Or maybe it was an
R
.’’

They were only here a short while, he went on, when Mary Ann—his fianceé—opened a gift shop in the East Village. Meredith, meanwhile, began getting some work in little theater and off-Broadway productions. Most of them
way
off Broadway. But her future looked promising. In fact, in December she got a terrific break: She landed the second lead in a new off-Broadway comedy/drama that, ac

cording to Meredith, was with a really professional com

pany. The play was in rehearsal now.

I asked Peter how he and Mary Ann had met.

‘‘Through Meredith, actually. I don’t know if I men

tioned it, but I’m a casting director—I work for an advertis

ing agency down in Soho. Anyway, one afternoon just a couple of weeks after she arrived in New York, Meredith came in to try out for this radio commercial we were cast

ing. We needed a woman with a British accent, but the account guy decided Meredith’s sounded phony.’’ Peter shook his head in disgust. ‘‘Can you believe it?’’ he de

manded of no one in particular. Then, to me: ‘‘I guess it’s because she mentioned she was American by birth; her fa

ther relocated the family when he took this job with the London office of Merrill Lynch or maybe it was Smith Bar

ney. Well, one of them. But that was when Meredith and Mary Ann were little kids, for God’s sake! Meredith sounded as British as . . . as the Queen!’’ He paused for a couple of seconds to give me a chance to let the idiocy of his co-worker sink in.

‘‘Well, thanks to that pea-brain,’’ he continued, ‘‘Mere

dith didn’t get the part. But I wound up asking her out to dinner. I don’t usually do that—date the talent, I mean. But there was something about her.’’

They went out a couple of other times after that first evening, Peter informed me, but, while he genuinely liked Meredith, it wasn’t long before he concluded that the chem

istry just wasn’t there. Then she invited him to the opening of this new play she was in. By that time, he had pretty much made up his mind not to call her again. But she

MURDER
CAN
RUIN
YOUR
LOOKS

15

caught him off guard. And besides, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So he went.

And that’s how he met Mary Ann.

‘‘I was just sitting there in the theater, waiting for the curtain to go up,’’ Peter said softly, a little smile flitting across his lips for a moment as he played back the scene he’d stored in his memory. ‘‘All of a sudden the woman in front of me turned sideways, sort of in a three-quarter pro

file. I’ve gotta tell you, I was floored. She looked exactly—

and I mean
exactly
—like the woman I was expecting to see onstage. Or at least I thought she did at the time. I really couldn’t get over it.’’

‘‘You didn’t know Meredith had a twin sister?’’

‘‘All I knew was that Meredith had a sister and that they were very close; she mentioned it to me when we were out

together. But she never said it was a
twin
sister.

‘‘Anyway, during intermission, Mary Ann and I started talking. Mostly about how lousy the show was—it closed a couple of days later—and about how Meredith was making

the most of what was a pretty small part. She—Mary Ann—

was genuinely
agonizing
about her sister’s being in such a turkey. I was impressed right away by what a compassion

ate person she was.

‘‘Then, later, when the show was over, the three of us went out for something to eat. We couldn’t have been in that restaurant for even an hour. But it was long enough for me to realize that Mary Ann had all the qualities that had initially attracted me to Meredith—plus so many more.’’

‘‘Like?’’

‘‘Well, she was softer than Meredith—and don’t ask me to explain what I mean by that; I can’t.’’

‘‘Less ambitious?’’ I suggested.

‘‘I guess that’s part of it, but only part of it,’’ Peter re

plied. He thought for a moment. ‘‘I really can’t put my finger on it,’’ he finished lamely.

‘‘I shouldn’t have interrupted. Go on.’’

‘‘Mary Ann laughed more, too,’’ he said, his voice taking on a dreamy quality and his eyes seeming to focus on some

thing far away. ‘‘And she was a terrific listener. And we found out we had a lot in common. We both love westerns

and stand-up comedy and spy novels and country music. We both enjoy spending Sundays at museums. And we’re

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Selma
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both crazy about the beach. And neither of us can stand Madonna or Andrew Dice Clay. Silly things like that,’’ he acknowledged, smiling shyly. ‘‘But that night we thought we’d made the greatest discovery in the world. You know, by the time we left the restaurant, I was convinced Mary Ann and Meredith didn’t even
look
that much alike.’’

‘‘That’s love, I guess.’’

Peter actually broke into a broad grin. ‘‘Of course, they
did
look alike. Very
much
alike. But after a while it was easy to spot the differences, too. Mary Ann’s features aren’t as perfect as Meredith’s; she even has this little bump on her nose. And their expressions aren’t the same. Mary Ann looks
softer
. Uh-oh,’’ he put in almost apologetically,

‘‘there goes that word again.’’

‘‘The two of you got serious right away?’’

‘‘
Right
away. We knew immediately this was it. For both of us. The next day I called Mary Ann at her shop. I don’t think Meredith minded; I’m sure she wasn’t romantically interested in me, either. But whether it was an honorable thing for me to do or not didn’t even cross my mind. And it wouldn’t have mattered if it did. I was completely gone.’’

‘‘How soon did you plan on being married?’’

‘‘Well, we hadn’t set a date, but neither of us saw any point in waiting very long. We were officially engaged a few weeks ago, although I didn’t get around to giving her a ring. Or, I guess I
should
say, Mary Ann didn’t get around to picking one out. I kept after her to go shopping with me—I wanted her to choose something she really liked—

but every time we made arrangements to meet at the jewel

er’s, she’d get busy in the shop or something and we had to cancel. I hoped she’d at least have the ring for her birth

day on February first, but that came and went, too. And now some bastard’s shot her; maybe even
killed
her.’’ Peter covered his face with his hands then, and when he took them away a few seconds later, his eyes were moist. But he seemed in control. ‘‘Would you like to see the face that scum destroyed?’’ he asked evenly, reaching into his pants pocket and producing a worn brown leather wallet. Then he carefully removed a photograph from the wallet and placed it on the table in front of me.

I picked it up. It was a snapshot of Peter hand-in-hand with a tall, willowy blonde about twenty-five years old. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a New York Yankees

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baseball cap. And, if the photograph was telling the truth, she was really extremely pretty.

‘‘That was at the Central Park Zoo.’’

‘‘She’s lovely.’’

‘‘You should see her now! She—the woman in the hospi

tal, and I’m
praying
it’s Mary Ann—had to have her jaw wired together. And her whole head is covered with ban

dages. She looks like some Egyptian mummy, for chris

sakes!’’ Then Peter’s voice became so low I had to strain to hear him. ‘‘That bastard! That . . .’’ He pressed his lips together and kept the rest of the thought to himself. We sat quietly for a moment, and Peter’s eyes began to fill up. Brushing a tear from the corner, he swallowed hard.