Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (24 page)

he rushed on, ‘‘I want you to know this is no cheap drunk; it’s champagne. Moe¨t something-or-other. Anyway, wish you were here.’’ Another Ellenish laugh. ‘‘I’ll speak to you in the morning. Good n—’’

Even talking at that rate, he couldn’t beat out my impa

tient little machine. But he’d already told me the only thing that mattered:

She was out of her coma!

Wait a minute. . . .
Who
was out of her coma? I played the message again. Peter hadn’t said that it was Mary Ann; he hadn’t even mentioned her name. But that was because he was so excited, I told myself. After all, would he be celebrating like that if it was Meredith?

Still, I was a little uneasy.

Chapter 20

On Wednesday I woke up before seven, but, as crazy as I was to talk to Peter, I didn’t have the heart to call him that early. From the sound of him on the phone last night, it was no stretch to assume he’d be pretty hungover this morning. I got out of bed, made myself some coffee, and then sat in the kitchen and stared at the wall clock until seventhirty. At which point I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. Rationalizing that he might be leaving for the hospital any minute now, I dialed Peter’s number.

As soon as he picked up, I knew that I’d dragged him out of a sound sleep. ‘‘Any news?’’ he asked when he real

ized who it was.

‘‘You’re the one with the news—the
fantastic
news!’’ I reminded him.

‘‘Geez, how did you find out so soon?’’ he asked groggily, attempting, not too successfully, to stifle a yawn. Welcome to
The
Twilight
Zone
.

‘‘You called me; don’t you remember?’’

For a couple of seconds, I thought the line had gone dead. Then Peter admitted sheepishly, ‘‘I guess I don’t. I did a little celebrating after I left the hospital, and every

thing’s sort of hazy.’’

‘‘I found a message from you on my machine when I came home last night,’’ I prompted.

‘‘I’ll take your word for it,’’ he responded with this diffi

dent little chuckle. Then, abruptly, he seemed to come fully awake, and there was excitement in his voice. ‘‘Did the message say that she regained consciousness?’’

‘‘Yes! And I can’t tell you how thrilled I am! How did it happen?’’

‘‘Uhh . . . look, Desiree, is it okay if I call you back in a few minutes? All of a sudden I feel a little queasy.’’

I didn’t hear from Peter for about twenty minutes. In the

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meantime, I was so intent on waiting for the phone to ring that I couldn’t even muster the concentration to open a box of cornflakes.

When Peter finally got back to me, he insisted he was feeling better, although he still sounded a little funny—like he’d lost his salivary glands.

‘‘Sorry about hanging up on you. I’m not one of the world’s great drinkers, I’m afraid. But I just
had
to celebrate.’’

‘‘So tell me!’’

‘‘It was really a miracle, Desiree,’’ he began, eager to talk now. ‘‘At a little after seven, I was getting ready to go home. I had this terrible headache, so I decided I’d make an early night of it, maybe grab a quick sandwich and go right to bed after that and see if I could sleep it off.

‘‘Then the strangest thing happened. I put on my coat, even buttoned it. But something just wouldn’t let me leave—I can’t explain it. So, anyway, I took off the coat and sat down next to the bed again. I was sitting there looking at her when I noticed that her eyes . . . well, they seemed to be open a little. Only a crack, really, and I couldn’t be positive—it was hard to tell with all those ban

dages and everything. Even so, I went a little nuts. I ran outside and dragged this resident in. He took her hand and started talking to her. He kept asking if she could hear him, but with her jaw wired shut like that, it was hard for her to answer. Or maybe she just didn’t have the strength. So then he told her that if she could hear him, she should wiggle her finger. And she did!’’

‘‘I can’t believe it! It’s what we’ve been praying for!’’ I screeched into the phone. Poor Peter. With that hangover of his, my soothing tone was undoubtedly just what he needed. ‘‘So then what?’’ I demanded.

‘‘Then he had me walk over to the bed, and he said, ‘Do

you know who this man is?’ She looked straight at me, but she didn’t seem to show any recognition; her finger didn’t move at all.’’

‘‘It could be she was a little disoriented,’’ I offered.

‘‘What happened after that?’’

‘‘Well, a couple of seconds later she shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep. And then right away all these doctors started pouring into the room, and they had me wait in the hall for a while. Finally one of the doctors came out and

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said there was a little problem. She was awake now, but she didn’t seem to know who she was.’’

God!
Doesn’t
it
ever
end?

‘‘They had me go back in,’’ Peter continued, ‘‘and they tried again. Told her to wiggle her finger if she recognized me. But nothing happened. Anyway, the doctors more or less threw me out then and told me to come back this morning. But one of them said not to worry, that at least she was conscious now, which was the big thing.’’

‘‘It sure is,’’ I agreed, my voice beginning to quiver. Sud

denly I seemed to be overwhelmed by so many different emotions at once: joy, relief, thankfulness, and a gnawing fear of what might be in store for Peter next. But somehow I managed to stem the tears that were on the brink of splashing all over the telephone receiver. ‘‘Well, that ex

plains one thing, anyway,’’ I murmured, more or less talk

ing to myself out loud.

‘‘Explains what?’’

‘‘Why you haven’t mentioned Mary Ann’s name at all. When I got your message last night, I wondered about that.’’

Peter was quick to respond. ‘‘If I haven’t mentioned her name,’’ he asserted, ‘‘it’s only because I’m afraid I’ll jinx things. The truth is, I still can’t get over how lucky I am she’s recovering. It doesn’t even matter to me what
she
knows—things’ll come to her in time. All that’s important is that since last night, I’ve known for sure that she’s Mary Ann.’’ Then he added, a note of triumph in his voice,

‘‘There, I’ve said it: She’s Mary Ann!’’

‘‘Oh, I hope so!’’ I told him softly, succeeding in another brief struggle to turn back the tears.

‘‘She really is; I’m positive of it,’’ Peter insisted fervently.

‘‘Look, I don’t want to sound mystical or anything, but something
made
me take off my coat last night so that I’d be there when Mary Ann came out of her coma. That wouldn’t have happened if it was Meredith; I’m convinced of it.’’ Then, a little hesitantly: ‘‘I suppose I sound like a real kook, don’t I?’’

‘‘Not to me, you don’t. How does that line in
Hamlet
go—I think it was
Hamlet
—about there being more things in heaven and earth than we can explain? Well, I believe that’s true.’’

And I really
do
believe it. Oh, maybe I should have told

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Peter to go easy, not to count on anything yet. But the way I looked at it, after all these terrible weeks he rated some happiness. Even if it should turn out to be for just a little while.

That afternoon, I began thinking about wills again. I didn’t seem to be able to help it, although I was sure that all I was doing was spinning my wheels. I mean, Fielding had been looking into that area pretty intensively. If the damned things
did
exist—and that seemed to be a big ‘‘if’’

at this point—he’d eventually manage to turn them up. Still, for the hell of it, I found myself approaching the subject as though, like the twins, I’d just arrived here from London. Now, let’s say I wanted to make out a will. (Natu

rally, it was necessary to start with the premise it hadn’t already been taken care of over there.) Well, first off, I’d have to get myself a lawyer. Okay, how would I go about finding one?

There were the Yellow Pages, of course, which would certainly make sense if I didn’t know anyone in New York. But suppose I did? Suppose that one of my closest child

hood friends was living right in this city?

Maybe it was a carryover from my conversation with Peter, but in spite of myself I was actually optimistic when I dialed Claire Josephs’s number.

‘‘Yes, as a matter of fact, Merry
did
ask me if I knew a lawyer who could help with a will,’’ Claire said when I put the question to her.

‘‘And did you recommend anybody?’’ I think my heart stopped pumping for the split second it took her to answer.

‘‘I talked to Rick—my husband—and he suggested this law firm in the building where he works. We’ve never had occasion to use a lawyer ourselves—although I guess we should make out a will, too, now that we’re parents.’’ (I’ll bet she shuddered when she said that.) ‘‘But anyway,’’ she went on, ‘‘Rick said that firm had a pretty good

reputation.’’

‘‘What was the name of the firm?’’

‘‘Let me see . . . was it Lefkowitz? No, not Lefkowitz, but something close to it. Wait. . . .’’

Claire’s mind search was rudely interrupted by her little Buddha, who, I can report, was in his usual fine, robust voice.

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‘‘I’ll call you back in a few minutes,’’ she told me hurriedly.

After we hung up, I couldn’t sit still. I began pacing back and forth in my office, which, since the room is only about seven-by-nine, had the effect of making me feel like I was walking in place. When I heard from Claire ten minutes later, I was still on my feet.

‘‘I just checked with my husband,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s Leibow

itz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell.’’ She even provided me with the phone number.

I gave her my genuine, heartfelt, enthusiastic thanks for her help and was about to say good-bye when she stopped me. ‘‘You know, I was going to call you.’’

‘‘About what, Claire?’’

‘‘Remember when you were here last week, and we were

talking about Roger Hyer?’’

I told her that of course I remembered.

‘‘It’s probably not that important or anything, but I don’t think I mentioned that my brother ran into Roger a couple of months ago at Le Cirque. Simon—that’s my brother—is a doctor, so he can afford Le Cirque,’’ she put in sourly.

‘‘And?’’

‘‘Well, Roger made a point of stopping off at Simon’s table. They met this one time at my apartment when the twins first moved to New York,’’ she explained. ‘‘Anyhow, Roger said he just wanted to say hello, but right away he asked about Mary Ann. Simon said she was fine. So then Roger asked if she was seeing anyone and Simon said that yes, she was, and that she was getting engaged soon.’’

I was practically hyperventilating by now. (I don’t think I’m constitutionally capable of handling more than one rev

elation at a time.) ‘‘Is that it?’’ I asked, just to make sure she had nothing more to add.

‘‘That’s it,’’ Claire said regretfully. ‘‘I told you it wasn’t much.’’

Chapter 21

I quashed the very strong impulse to get in touch with the lawyers myself, deciding that I’d play it smart for once and let Tim do the honors. Partly that was because I realized that, in his official capacity, it would probably be easier for him to get the information we both wanted. But mostly it was because I still didn’t have much on the credit side of my Fielding ledger. I’ve got to admit, though, that I called the precinct reluctantly.

Fielding—wouldn’t you know it?—was out. And I practi

cally had to sit on my hands to keep from dialing Leibowitz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell next. A brief visit with Jackie and a lengthy phone call to Ellen made it easier. By the time I was through talking to the two of them, the digital clock on my desk read 5:37. Leibowitz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell were most likely all on their way home now anyway. So temptation was behind me.

But the next morning I didn’t take any chances. As soon

as I left the apartment, I headed straight for the Twelfth Precinct. The cab deposited me there at a little after nine, and right away I ran into Walter Corcoran—literally. He was coming out of the front door just as I was entering the building. In view of my feelings toward the man, I chose to blame him for our small collision.

‘‘For God’s sake,Corcoran! Why don’t you watch it! You

almost knocked me over!’’

‘‘It would take a bulldozer to knock you over,’’ he coun