Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (22 page)

I was still stymied, though, as to why he’d deliberately shoot the
wrong
victim
in the face. It took a good fifteen minutes’ worth of tossing and turn

ing and a few healthy punches to the pillow before I came up with something that would let me off the hook. And, in the end, my explanation was simplicity itself: The perp could just have been
that
furious
at having been deceived. Of course, I was aware that my theory needed some work. I hadn’t even
tried
to apply it to a particular suspect yet. The basic idea, though, seemed to make sense. But so many things do at one A.M., don’t they?

The next morning, before leaving for the office, I called Peter.

‘‘I won’t keep you,’’ I informed him. ‘‘Just two things. First: What night this week are you coming to dinner?’’

Anticipating his protest—since it was already the third time I’d extended the invitation—I told him quickly, ‘‘And your excuses won’t mean beans to me this time. We can make it a late as you want, too.’’

I guess I’d worn him down. ‘‘Thanks,’’ he responded.

‘‘That would be great—if you’re sure you wouldn’t mind eating at around nine.’’

We set it up for Thursday.

‘‘One thing more,’’ I said then. ‘‘Just tell me this: Did Mary Ann have a will?’’

‘‘I don’t think so, Desiree.’’

Nothing
about
this
case
was
easy.
Nothing
. I brought my car to work that day, hoping to drive out to the Screaming Red Eagle in the early evening. I started calling the place as soon as I came back from lunch, just to make sure that the bartender I needed to talk to would be there that night. Someone finally picked up at a few minutes of four.

‘‘Screaming Red Eagle,’’ this deep, raspy voice

announced.

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‘‘What time do you open today?’’

‘‘We’re open now, lady.’’

‘‘Is Carl working tonight?’’

‘‘You’re talkin’ to him. Who’s this?’’

‘‘I’ll surprise you,’’ I said.

As soon as I clicked off, I dialed the coffee shop on the next block and ordered a burger and some fries. Then I did a little research on this other case that, like everything else, had been getting pretty short shrift since the day Peter reentered my life. I ate between a brief, gossipy chat with Jackie and phone calls to my gynecologist and ophthalmol

ogist, both of whom had sent me postcards at least three months back notifying me that I was now due for my an

nual checkup.

At around quarter after five, I left the office to pick up my Chevy at the garage around the corner.

The second I got downstairs, it started to pour. And I mean
pour
. The weatherman on WNBC that morning had predicted cloudy and cold with the chance of a few light, intermittent showers. I would very much have enjoyed seeing that man hang by his nose.

I ran back up to the office for the spare umbrella I keep in my desk and then made for the garage. Even with the umbrella, I was soaked by the time I got there. My hair, which was loaded down with the usual quarter can of hair spray, was plastered flat against my head and looked like red mucilage. (I knew in my heart that I would never be able to run a comb through it again.) My two-week-old suede pumps were filled with so much water I squished when I walked. And what was worst of all, the rain had gone right through my coat and baptized my beautiful tur

quoise silk blouse.

The drive to Hillsdale was a nightmare. Visibility was so poor, I had to pull over to the side of the road I don’t know how many times to wait for the rain to let up a little. Naturally, the minute it did and I’d get back on the high

way, there’d be another deluge. Under normal circum

stances, the ride shouldn’t have taken me more than an hour, tops. That night, it took closer to three. I swear, I could’ve made it faster if I’d crawled there on my hands and knees.

By the time I walked into the Screaming Red Eagle, I was tired and cold and very, very wet. I had to shake myself

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vigorously before I could even get out of my coat. I must have looked like something that escaped from a kennel. I took a seat at one end of the long, circular bar, sepa

rated by about ten stools from the only two other customers in the place. Evidently, most people have the good sense to stay home on a night like this.

The bartender was a tall, heavyset man of about fifty with sparse graying hair and fewer teeth. I ordered a blackberry brandy, which was definitely therapeutic in view of the shape I was in. ‘‘Are you Carl?’’ I asked, when he brought the drink over.

‘‘Yeah, that’s right.’’

‘‘I’m your surprise.’’ He stared at me blankly. ‘‘You know, the phone call this afternoon, remember?’’

He nodded, but he didn’t smile. The man didn’t seem overly fond of surprises.

I brought out my identification, which he barely glanced at. ‘‘So?’’ he said.

Now, I have no idea what possessed me to tell him this absurd story. It certainly wasn’t anything I’d planned on. But all of a sudden there it was, coming out of my mouth. And then I just kept on improvising as I went along.

‘‘I’ve been engaged by an attorney who’s anxious to lo

cate a customer of yours, a Mr. Roger Hyer,’’ I began. ‘‘Mr. Hyer’s come into some money—not a fortune, but nothing to sneeze at, either—and we haven’t been able to reach him.’’

I want you to know that I realized Carl had almost cer

tainly been prepped for my visit. And all I can say in my own defense is that on the off chance he
wasn’t
expecting me, I had a much better shot at getting him to cooperate than if I told him one of his customers was a murder sus

pect. And after all, what did I have to lose? If he knew I was lying, he’d call me on it.

‘‘I’ve left half a dozen messages at Mr. Hyer’s office and on his answering machine at home,’’ I went on, ‘‘but he never got back to me.’’ Carl was staring at me with icecold eyes, making it extremely nerve-wracking to continue. But it was too late to stop now. ‘‘I even went to his house a few times. I guess he doesn’t stay home much, though, huh?’’ I concluded lamely.

‘‘How come you’re lookin’ for him here?’’

‘‘Well . . . um . . . I had a talk with this cousin of Hyer’s—

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he’s mentioned in the same will that Hyer is—and he told me he came in here with him once. Says Hyer’s a regular.’’

‘‘Drops in maybe twice a week,’’ the bartender said with

out inflection. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘‘And you came out in this kinda weather just in case he showed up?’’

‘‘I drove in from New York, and it wasn’t even raining when I left my office. Besides, I was hoping that if I didn’t catch him, I could leave a message with you explaining what this is all about.’’

Carl was no dope. ‘‘Ever thought of sendin’ him a letter?’’

‘‘I did—or anyway the attorney did, asking Hyer to get in touch with him. But Hyer never called. Maybe the letter got lost in the mail. So is it okay if I just give you a note for him?’’

Carl shrugged. ‘‘Suit yourself.’’

I rummaged around in my attache´ for a piece of paper and, with my back to the bar, pretended to write on it. Then I put the blank sheet in an envelope, scribbled Hyer’s name on the front, and sealed it.

‘‘Uh, I was just thinking,’’ I said, handing the bartender the envelope. ‘‘The last time I was in Hillsdale—on Febru

ary tenth, it was, sometime in the evening—I was parked in front of Hyer’s house for three hours, waiting for him to come home. That was a Monday, by the way. Anyhow, it would be ironic if he was right in here all that while, wouldn’t it?’’ I asked with this insipid little laugh. Purposefully putting the envelope down on the bar, Carl leaned toward me. His eyes were mere slits now, and his face was so close to mine, I could almost taste his stale breath. ‘‘I was wondering when you’d get around to that,’’

he said in an unnaturally quiet voice. For a moment, I felt afraid. Then he straightened up. ‘‘Look, lady, I
know
what this is really about,’’ he informed me.

My cheeks felt as if they were catching fire. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ I asked weakly.

‘‘I mean that Roger told me days ago that I should ex

pect to hear from you. He asked me to tell you whatever you wanted to know.’’

‘‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the beginning?’’ I actu

ally had the nerve to be indignant. (It’s really humiliating being on the losing end of a cat-and-mouse game. Even if you did it to yourself.)

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‘‘I hated to spoil the fun,’’ was the man’s response. But he didn’t appear the least bit amused.

‘‘Look, I’m sorry. I just thought it might be easier to get you to level with me if you didn’t know I was investigating a crime. Hyer says he was here the night of February tenth and that you might be able to verify it.’’

‘‘He was here.’’

‘‘That was two weeks ago. How can you be sure?’’

‘‘Because my daughter got married the day before, and it was Roger who recommended the florist. So the night after the wedding—that Monday—he wanted to know if the guy did a good job for me.’’

‘‘It was definitely the very next night? It couldn’t have been two nights later?’’

‘‘No, it couldn’t.’’

‘‘What time did he come in? Do you have any idea?’’

‘‘Around eight.’’

‘‘You’re sure of the time?’’

Carl gave this exasperated sigh. ‘‘Listen, Roger always comes in around eight, give or take a few minutes. It woulda registered on me if he came in at a different time.’’

‘‘All right. But I hope you’re being straight with me. Two young girls—one of them Hyer’s former fianceé—got their faces blown off that night, and I know you wouldn’t want to cover for the person responsible.’’ The bartender’s eyes began to narrow again. ‘‘Of course you wouldn’t,’’ I told him quickly.

I was out of there three minutes later.

Chapter 19

At a little after ten on Tuesday morning, I stopped off at the Twelfth Precinct, hoping to catch Tim Fielding. Fortu

nately, he was in, sitting at his desk. What’s more, he didn’t grumble for more than three or four minutes about people who expect you to be at their beck and call whenever it suits them. He wasn’t even all that unpleasant when he said, ‘‘I don’t suppose you thought of picking up the phone to see if I was available before you came bursting in here.’’

Now, considering how I just about managed to drag my

self over there that morning, I definitely did not ‘‘burst.’’

However, I appreciated that this was not the time to get involved in semantics.

‘‘I know I should have called,’’ I admitted, ‘‘but I was on my way to the office when I decided to drop in here first. If you could spare me just a few minutes—’’

‘‘Who are you kiddin’? Remember me? I
know
your few minutes.’’

I took two containers of coffee and half a dozen donuts from the brown paper bag I was carrying. I had this plead

ing look on my face when I set them on Fielding’s desk. I can’t say for sure whether it was the look or the do

nuts—eight to one it was the donuts—but Fielding mut

tered, ‘‘Okay, sit down.’’ Then he reached for the chocolate donut with the walnut sprinkles. ‘‘But don’t get too com

fortable; you won’t be staying long.’’

I sat on the chair alongside his desk and slipped off my coat—which produced an immediate frown. ‘‘Here,’’ I said, handing him the container marked with a
B,
‘‘black, no sugar.’’ I opened my own coffee and picked out a jelly donut, getting in a few quick bites while Fielding was busy doing the same.

‘‘Well?’’ he said about ten seconds later, drumming his fingers on the desk.

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‘‘I just thought it was time we compared notes.’’

‘‘Which, judging from your past performances, means you’re here to find out what
I
know.’’

‘‘Absolutely untrue,’’ I responded huffily. ‘‘I have plenty to tell you this morning; you’ll see.’’

‘‘Fine. I’m waiting.’’

This was not the way I’d arranged the agenda in my head, but I was on shaky ground. ‘‘Well, I thought maybe we could start with the twins’ finances.’’

‘‘Really? And just what information do
you
have on their finances?’’