Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (27 page)

By now we were ready to order dessert. And my head was spinning from the strain of attempting to outsmart an unsuspecting Tara who was stonewalling me at every turn. And, what was worse, without even trying!

Well, I’d asked her all the leading questions I could drum up, and short of being direct—which I knew would only succeed in antagonizing her—there was no place left to go. So, in the interest of enjoying an angst-free dessert, I finally threw in the towel.

Chapter 23

After all of my nagging and whining and wheedling, I was finally about to visit the scene of the crime. I don’t know what I actually expected to find in that apartment; I only knew that I wouldn’t be satisfied until I had a look at the place.

As soon as I identified myself to the doorman, a young black man with a friendly smile, he said to go right up, that the officers were expecting me. ‘‘The English gentleman just got here two minutes before you did,’’ he informed me. As I turned the corner to the elevator bank, Eric Foster was entering one of the cars. To join him, I’d really have had to hustle. Which didn’t appeal to me at all. Anyhow, I didn’t have much of a wait for the next elevator; it came along maybe ten seconds later.

When I got out on four, I spotted Foster way down the plushly carpeted hall, walking briskly. Now, in my building you could yell ‘‘Hey, wait up!’’ and nobody would think twice about it. But here, they’d probably have you arrested. So I showed some decorum. In a moment, he was at the end of the hall; then, without pausing, he turned left and disappeared from my sight.

Walking a whole lot less briskly, I followed in his foot

steps and arrived at the door to 4C a couple of minutes later.

Fielding answered my ring, and I entered what under ordinary circumstances would have been one of my

daydreams.

There was a long, mirrored foyer with a beautiful parquet floor and the most exquisite crystal chandelier. The only jarring note—and it was a doozy—was that when I reached

the far end of the foyer, where it curved into the living room, I immediately conjured up a vision of Meredith Fos

ter lying there faceless, covered with blood.

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Fielding led the way into the ballroom-sized living room, which had soft Wedgewood blue walls, floor-to-ceiling win

dows, and—what really sent my heart racing—a wide stair

case leading to what was obviously a second floor. Only one small section of the room contained any furni

ture at all, the sum total of the pieces consisting of a velvet, loose-backed sofa the exact shade of the walls and a rectan

gular glass coffee table with brass accents. Plus there were a couple of old folding chairs and a battered floor lamp—

makeshift items I’m sure the twins had been looking for

ward to replacing. All of the furnishings stood on a pale, cream-colored area rug bordered in the Wedgewood. I esti

mated that if I ever had a rug that color, it would take two weeks tops before the thing was decorated with telltale reminders of some of D’Agostino’s most tempting goodies. And then, when I got closer, I saw the dark stains on
that
rug, stains that had a much more sinister origin. And now there was the image of another prostrate, faceless young girl. And she was wearing a blood-soaked yellow cashmere sweater, and there was more blood slowly oozing

onto the carpet, and . . . Determinedly, I banished Mary Ann, too, from my mind.

‘‘Hello,’’ Eric Foster was saying, ‘‘how are you, De

siree?’’ We shook hands. ‘‘All right if I call you Desiree?’’

‘‘Oh, sure. Please do.’’

‘‘I suppose you’ve heard about my sister coming out of the coma?’’ he asked, his voice ringing with excitement. He had draped his coat and gloves across one of the folding chairs alongside the sofa and was now adding his scarf to the small pile.

‘‘Yes, and it’s wonderful!’’

This conversation between two human beings was inter

rupted by a sarcastic ‘‘It’s nice to see you, too, Shapiro.’’

I turned around to acknowledge Walter Corcoran, who was sprawled in the folding chair on the other side of the sofa, his long legs extending straight out in front of him almost to the chair opposite. ‘‘Hi, Walter.’’ I had made up my mind that, no matter what, I was going to be civil to Corcoran today. I did not aspire to friendly or pleasant, which was really too much to ask of myself.

‘‘Hi, Walter,’’ he mimicked.

Fielding, who was returning from the kitchen with a glass of water at that moment, jumped in quickly, apparently

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anticipating one of my usual tit-for-tat responses. ‘‘Your sisters collected shopping bags full of check stubs from their London days,’’ he said, addressing Foster. ‘‘It shouldn’t take you too long to go through them, though—at least, I hope not. But either a name hits you or it doesn’t, right?’’

‘‘Right. You said ‘check stubs,’ didn’t you? No can

celed checks?’’

‘‘None that we could find, and believe me, we looked.’’

‘‘A pity,’’ Foster commented. ‘‘Undoubtedly there’d have

been some sort of designation on the checks themselves.’’

Then he shrugged. ‘‘Well, it can’t be helped. I’m ready to start anytime now.’’

Corcoran got reluctantly to his feet, and I immediately threw my belongings on the now-empty chair. After which I followed the men through an arched doorway on the far side of the living room, turned right, and proceeded down a short hallway and then into a nice-sized room I presumed was the study. It contained a massive mahogany desk, be

hind which was a large burgundy leather armchair. Next to the chair were two bulging shopping bags. Poor Foster was liable to be here till dawn, I thought.

Fielding turned to his partner. ‘‘I think it might not be a bad idea to bring those folding chairs in here, huh, Walt?

Why don’t I go get ’em.’’

In a few moments he was back with the two chairs. As soon as he set them down in front of the desk, he crooked his finger at me. ‘‘C’mon with me, Dez.’’

‘‘You know,’’ he said when we were out in the hall, ‘‘I don’t see any point in your hanging around for two, three hours while Foster’s digging through all that stuff. Why don’t you have a look around—although, for the life of me, I can’t figure out what you hope to learn—and leave when you’re finished. If he comes up with anything at all, I’ll let you know.’’

‘‘Swear?’’

‘‘Swear.’’ With a smile.

‘‘Today?’’

‘‘Today.’’ With a frown. ‘‘Now where do you want to start?’’

‘‘You don’t have to come with me; I’m not going to touch

anything,’’ I protested indignantly.

‘‘I know that. But I’m responsible here; you’re not even

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supposed to
be
here. So do me a favor and don’t give me any grief, huh?’’

Of course, when he put it like that . . .

With Fielding lurking in the background, I returned to the entry foyer, noting that, as beautiful as that chandelier was, it cast more shadow than light. Then I went back to the living room. The single lamp behind the sofa did a very poor job of illuminating even the immediate area. Well, if there was anything in that mistaken identity theory of mine, the lighting in this place only served to reinforce it. Now that I’d established that, I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted to check out. It seemed Tim had been right all along: There was nothing to be gained by my visiting the apartment. But I wasn’t about to tell
him
that. And as long as I was here anyway . . .

With my friend not too happily in tow, I spent the next fifteen minutes giving myself a tour. I found myself yearning for the eat-in kitchen with its enormous refrigera

tor and industrial-sized stove. To say nothing of how I cov

eted the separate breakfast area, the real live honest-to

goodness pantry, and a dining room that was easily one and a half times the size of my living room. I won’t even mention that there were
three
powder rooms on that floor. Fielding balked when I told him I was ready to go up

stairs. ‘‘Okay, tell me what you’re looking for up there,’’

he challenged.

‘‘I have a couple of ideas,’’ I said, hoping it came off sounding cryptic.

‘‘You’ve got five minutes.’’

The first room we came to on the second level was a handsome wood-paneled library with bookshelves every

where you looked—and only a handful of books to occupy them. Next to the library was—surprise!—another powder room and, to the right of the powder room, what I took to be a guest room with, naturally, a bathroom of its very own. Finally, on the other side of the hall, there were two absolutely immense bedroom
suites,
each with an adjoining bath complete with sunken tub, bidet, mile-long marble vanity, and magnificent, hand-painted fixtures.

The moment I saw those suites, I knew which twin be

longed where.

One of them contained a brass queen-sized bed, covered

with navy and red sheets and matching comforter in a bold

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geometric pattern. The vivid color scheme was picked up in the large modern painting that hung over the bed and in a solid red octagonal rug with navy fringe. The only remaining items in the suite were obviously temporary pieces: a badly scarred triple dresser and an equally scarred night table that held a small brass lamp. This room had Meredith written all over it: strong, vibrant, contemporary. The second bedroom was furnished with a painted white canopy bed, made up with white linens lavishly edged in lace. There were white lace curtains at the windows and, next to the bed, a beautiful black needlepoint rug with pink, yellow, and white flowers. The mood was soft, charm

ing, romantic. Mary Ann, to a T. As I turned to leave, I remember thinking that I’d have to ask Peter which room was which just to prove to myself I was right. And then, on top of one of the two battered chests of drawers here, I saw a snapshot in a gold filigree frame. I recognized that picture. The girl was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap. And the boy, of course, was Peter.

I was glad the apartment was so sparsely furnished. It gave me a chance to decorate it while I was trying to fall asleep that night. But then I was suddenly struck by the ghoulishness of it all, and I quickly relinquished the project. I mean, what I was doing was practically like dancing on somebody’s grave, for God’s sake!

It was just before I dozed off that this
thing
in the back of my head began nagging at me, trying to push its way to the front of my mind. And I suddenly got this unshakable conviction that something I’d seen or heard that day was eluding me—something that just wasn’t right. I didn’t have a clue what it was. But I
did
know it was important. I woke up the next morning still unable to pin it down. And all afternoon, it was gnawing away at me. I kept re

minding myself that I was being foolish. After all, Saturday had been so uneventful—disappointing, really, especially when I thought about how long I’d been anticipating it. But still, I couldn’t seem to shake off this feeling. . . . Ellen had invited me to dinner that night. Now, dinner at Ellen’s always means the same thing: Chinese takeout. Which is great with me. You see, except for breakfast,

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which she really manages quite nicely, Ellen’s prowess in the kitchen used to be attested to by one practically raw or incinerated dish after another. I can’t tell you how grate

ful my stomach was when she finally abandoned her efforts. Anyway, I was lousy company that evening. I couldn’t seem to concentrate long enough to string two coherent sentences together. (Ellen was concerned I was coming down with something.) I was even too preoccupied to enjoy the meal, although I’m sure, based on my extensive experi

ence with my niece’s takeout of choice, that it was very good. (My lack of appetite must have been pretty obvious, too, because at that point Ellen was
sure
I was coming down with something.)

And then it happened.

We’d just finished eating, and I was pushing my chair back from the table, when that
thing
that had been driving me up the wall finally worked its way through to my consciousness:

How
did
he
know
which
way
to
go?