Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (30 page)

tal, at least.’’

‘‘I doubt if that would have helped,’’ I interjected.

‘‘Then it came to me,’’ Peter continued, ignoring my comment, ‘‘about Charlotte—Charlotte Bromley. She’s this

MURDER
CAN
RUIN
YOUR
LOOKS

179

friend of Mary Ann’s who’s away on vacation—until the middle of this month, I think you told me. Right?’’

‘‘That’s right,’’ I confirmed. ‘‘And?’’

‘‘Charlotte’s a jewelry designer. In fact, Mary Ann buys a lot of the stuff for the shop from her—that’s how they met. She’s friendly with Meredith, too, though. Charlotte would know which of them used to wear that ring, wouldn’t she? After all, that’s her business.’’

He could be right! A jewelry designer
would
be likely to notice something like that. It was even possible the ring was one of Bromley’s own designs, in which case she’d certainly be able to tell us who it belonged to. But a second later this little voice inside me was warning,
Haven’t
you
learned
yet
not
to
count
on
anything
with
this
case,
you
cretin?
So, tempering my enthusiasm, I said to Peter, ‘‘And this occurred to you just last night?’’

‘‘Yes. And I was going to tell you about it as soon as I spoke to you. Not that it’s really that important, except to maybe help me with Fielding.’’

‘‘But this woman’s information could establish the vic

tims’ identities,’’ I pointed out.

‘‘Mary Ann’s the one in that hospital room, Desiree.’’

‘‘But the ring would give us the
proof
!’’ I insisted, no longer able to contain my excitement.
What
did
that
inner
voice
of
mine
know,
anyway?

‘‘I don’t need any proof,’’ Peter maintained with quiet conviction. ‘‘About Fielding, though. . . . I was afraid if
I
called and tried to bargain with him, it would sound like blackmail, but if
you
called—’’

‘‘It would still sound like blackmail.’’

‘‘See what you can do, anyway, will you, Desiree?

Please? I’m really going stir-crazy not being allowed to see Mary Ann.’’

Under protest, and with a whole lot of misgivings, I fi

nally agreed to act as the middleman for my client. Fielding wasn’t in when I tried him, so I left a message. He didn’t get back to me until the following morning. There was no ‘‘Hello.’’ No ‘‘How are you?’’ None of the

normal pleasantries you expect to hear when you pick up the telephone. Fielding’s opener was ‘‘You talk to your client?’’ It sounded like he was biting off the words.

‘‘Yes, and he’s got a proposition for you.’’

180

Selma
Eichler

‘‘A
what
?’’

‘‘Don’t get excited, Tim. It’s about that ring—you know, the one you never bothered telling me about.’’

‘‘I
beg
your pardon, Ms. Shapiro,’’ he said, his voice so soft and polite there was no doubt he was seething. ‘‘For

give me. It occasionally slips my mind that the police are obligated to report to you.’’

Well, I’d blown it already. Antagonizing him certainly wasn’t going to make Fielding more receptive to my client’s proposal, which I definitely knew would make him crazy anyway. And which only Peter’s desperation coupled with my fondness for him could have induced me to present.

‘‘So what does Winters want to sell me?’’

‘‘Oh, I wouldn’t say he wants to sell—’’

He stopped me in midprotest. ‘‘Cool it, huh, Desiree?

Just tell me what this is about.’’

I spoke quickly to get it over with. ‘‘Well, Peter believes there’s a way you can find out who that ring belongs to. And all he’s asking is that if he tells you, you let him go up and see the victim.’’ Before Fielding could respond, I slipped in, ‘‘Just once. And only for a few minutes.’’

The reaction was as bad as I’d expected it to be. Or maybe a little worse. ‘‘You tell your client there’s no deal. If he wants to get into that hospital room, we’ve gotta know where he was that night. And furthermore, if he has any information about that ring, it’s his duty to give it to the police. And if he doesn’t do that, I’ll have that butt of his tossed in jail for withholding evidence!’’

Now, as little as I know about the law, I did know one thing: There was no withholding of evidence here; all Peter was keeping to himself were his own thoughts. ‘‘But Peter doesn’t have what you could call
evidence,
Tim; it’s just an idea that occurred to him.’’

‘‘Which you are about to share with me. Unless you, too,

would like to see the inside of a jail, with all of those cute little mice and nice, juicy cockroaches to keep you company.’’

Now, I wouldn’t say I’m suggestible, but I already felt as though something was crawling up my leg. Shuddering, I even looked down to check.

‘‘And don’t think I won’t do it, either,’’ Tim assured me menacingly. ‘‘Whoever shot those two women is one perp

MURDER
CAN
RUIN
YOUR
LOOKS

181

who’s not going to get away with murder—no matter what it takes.’’

Remember my good friend Tim Fielding—that nice guy I told you about earlier? Well, right now he was sounding a lot like his extremely un-nice partner. He must be under a tremendous amount of pressure with this damn case, I decided, defending him to myself. I mean, this was really so unlike him.

‘‘And don’t hand me any of that ’client confidentiality’

crap,’’ he put in then. ‘‘Because I won’t be able to hear you. Get me?’’

‘‘Look, Tim, I don’t know what’s on Peter’s mind,’’ I lied through my recently veneered teeth. ‘‘I’d tell you if I did.’’

‘‘I want you to hang up and have another talk with your client. And I want you to inform him there’s no deal. And right after that, you make it clear to him—
very
clear—that he’d better get his ass down here and start leveling with us if he knows what’s good for him!’’

I gathered the conversation was over then, because, once

again, I heard that infuriating sound in my ear.

Chapter 27

I was in over my head. What had ever possessed me to accept this case, anyway? I could have recommended a half dozen—no, a dozen—P.I.s to Peter who were better quali

fied to handle an investigation like this than I was. And every one of them would probably have the whole thing solved by now, too. I even thought briefly about resigning. I’d taken on the case with the provision that all I had to do was establish the identity of the survivor, hadn’t I? And if Peter was so sure that girl in the hospital was Mary Ann, then my job was over, wasn’t it?

Oh, who was I kidding? No matter what he said and how

many times he said it, Peter
had
to have his doubts. And besides, there was no way I could walk away from this mess. Not anymore.

Right then, though, I really wasn’t up to reporting back to my client and getting myself involved in another hassle; that little exchange with Fielding had been more than enough to last me at least until tomorrow, thank you. So when Peter called the office that afternoon, I took the cow

ard’s way out and had Jackie tell him I wasn’t in. When I got home at a few minutes after six, there was a message from my neighbor Barbara on the machine.

‘‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’’ she said when I re

turned the call. ‘‘I thought, if you don’t have other plans, maybe we could go out and grab something to eat a little later.’’

‘‘Oh, I would have liked that, Barbara, but I’m invited over to my niece’s for Chinese.’’ I swear that small false

hood was more for Barbara’s sake than mine. In my present mood, if that woman had uttered even one syllable about my weight or my cholesterol, she would have been seri

ously maimed.

I wanted to just stay home and unwind, anyway. I poured

MURDER
CAN
RUIN
YOUR
LOOKS

183

myself a glass of Chianti—and I almost never drink alone—

then kicked off my shoes and curled up on the sofa. In the half hour or so that I sat there sipping, the most important thought that crossed my mind was what I would have for dinner.

After I’d really mellowed out, I went into the kitchen to fix myself what Ellen refers to as one of my ‘‘refrigerator omelets’’—so named because I throw in just about every

thing I have in my refrigerator at the moment. Tonight’s version featured ham, mozzarella cheese, Parmesan cheese, onions, green peas, a small piece of red pepper, and some leftover chicken. Now, I don’t exactly know how that sounds, but I can assure you, it tasted a lot better. I followed the omelet with some Macadamia Brittle ice cream, which I was certainly entitled to after all I’d been through that day. And I was toying with the idea of follow

ing
that
with a Snickers bar when the telephone rescued my waistline.

Still avoiding Peter, I waited until the answering machine went on. It was Fielding. And that call I was even less anxious to take.

‘‘I wanted to know what that client of yours had to say,’’

he snarled over the machine. ‘‘I’m off this weekend, but I expect to see him in here on Monday—and in a talkative mood.’’

I got in the last word. Sort of. ‘‘And a happy weekend to you, too,’’ I snarled back as soon as he hung up. I spent Saturday doing as little as possible. I didn’t go through my notes. I didn’t call Peter. And I didn’t pick up the phone when he called me, either. I also didn’t clean my apartment, read a book, or stick my nose out of the door. I just sat in front of the television from eleven A.M. until after midnight—with a brief break for meals, snacks, and other necessities—happily watching one boring pro

gram after another. (I think I’d even have been satisfied looking at test patterns, if it came to that.) The thing is, it was like sending my malfunctioning brain on a brief—and badly needed—vacation.

On Sunday morning, I finally got back to Peter with some

kind of health-related apology for not calling sooner. (It was either plain food poisoning or Legionnaire’s disease—

I can’t remember which.) When I relayed where things

184

Selma
Eichler

stood with Fielding, he didn’t seem overly upset that his proposition had been turned down; I guess he was more or

less prepared for it. But as soon as I told him about the threats, his voice grew anxious. ‘‘It’s one thing to put the screws to me, but can he really throw
you
in jail?’’

‘‘Don’t worry about that,’’ I said, touched by his concern. Then I added hastily, ‘‘But he
can
make things pretty un

comfortable for me. And for you, too.’’ After that, I segued into what must have been my hundredth attempt to per

suade him to change his mind and talk to the police. But, as usual, he dug in his heels and very apologetically turned me down.

Ellen called in the afternoon. We spent fifteen minutes discussing her friend Gail, who was being married in a few weeks and who hadn’t invited her to the wedding. Ellen—

who’d (a) gotten this girl a job at Macy’s and (b) held her hand every time she threatened suicide when her fiance´

dumped her for three months last year so he could ‘‘get in touch with his feelings"—was crushed.

‘‘You know,’’ she explained, ‘‘it’s not a very big affair, so I didn’t really mind her not inviting me until I found out one of her co-workers was going—a girl she’s only known six months. Gail and
I
have been friends for over seven years.’’

The next fifteen minutes were devoted to an in-depth analysis of whether or not Ellen should let Gail know how she felt. (In case you’re interested, it was decided that she
would
say something—but not until after the wedding.) Then I got equal time.

I kicked off by whining about still having this big unan

swered question with regard to the argument between Mer

edith and Larry Shields. Following that, I dropped the news that my client had been lying to me.

Ellen was suitably shocked by Peter’s deceitfulness. But then I came to the part where he said he’d rather tell the police his alibi than confide in me, and she refused, at first, to accept that at all.

‘‘Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand what he said?’’

‘‘Positive.’’

‘‘Isn’t it
possible
you didn’t hear him right?’’

‘‘No, it isn’t.’’