Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (32 page)

‘‘You know what I can’t figure out, though? Why you refused to tell the police where you were that night.’’

‘‘Don’t you
see
? My fianceé was shot—almost killed—

while I was with another woman, hearing that I was the father of her baby. I can’t even bear to think about that, much less talk about it. And now that Mary Ann’s finally recovering, I keep worrying about how
she’d
take it if she ever found out where I was.’’

‘‘You could have just told Fielding you were visiting your neighbor,’’ I pointed out. ‘‘Nobody would have had to know what you were there to discuss.’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ Peter said, and his eyes were moist, ‘‘but
I
know.’’

‘‘How late were you in Frankie’s apartment, anyway?’’ I asked then.

‘‘It was after nine; I’m sure of that. We sent out for pizza around eight, but it didn’t get there for close to an hour.’’

‘‘Look, Peter, I can understand your feeling guilty about being with another woman. But I can’t understand your feeling so guilty that you’d leave yourself open to being considered a murder suspect.’’

‘‘But how could anyone seriously think I’d try to kill Mary Ann? What
reason
would I have?’’

‘‘For one thing, Fielding’s considering the possibility you and Mary Ann had a lover’s quarrel.’’

‘‘I know. He told me the other day that he heard there was some trouble between us, but I knew he was just test

ing the water. In other words,’’ Peter summed up, managing a little smile, ‘‘he was full of it.’’

‘‘His other idea is that you might have wanted to murder

her for her money.’’

Peter looked stunned. ‘‘But Mary Ann didn’t
have
any money. Meredith was the rich one.’’

‘‘Hold it a sec. You mean the Fosters cut Mary Ann out of their will?’’

‘‘The Fosters?’’ And then a sharp intake of breath.

‘‘Ohhh, I see where you’re coming from,’’ he said slowly,

‘‘but you’ve got it all wrong. The Fosters weren’t wealthy, Desiree. They lost almost everything they had in some real

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estate investment thing a few years before they died; there was barely enough left to cover the funeral expenses. It was Meredith’s husband who had all the money. He was an inventor; I’m sure I told you that.’’

‘‘I don’t think so,’’ I responded numbly.

‘‘Well, he was,’’ Peter said hastily. ‘‘And in spite of the fact he was a pretty messed-up guy, a very successful one. He developed this little gadget—something to do with fuel consumption—and sold it to one of the airlines for three or four million dollars.’’

My
God!
All
these
weeks
I’d
been
operating
under
a
to

tally
false
assumption!
And what was so hard to accept was that it was my own damned fault. I’d just
assumed
the twins had inherited from their parents. What kind of a P.I. was I, anyway, that I’d never bothered to check it out? The kind of P.I. that wasn’t even qualified to find a missing cat—much less a killer—
that’s
what kind!

‘‘You look a little strange,’’ Peter informed me then. ‘‘I never realized you thought that Mary Ann had money, too.’’ And, a moment later: ‘‘So
that’s
why you asked me that time if she’d made out a will.’’

I felt like throwing myself down and banging my head on the floor! (It’s tough behaving like a grown-up when you’ve just discovered you’re the world’s biggest incompe

tent.) But I put my tantrum on hold for a while, because something had suddenly occurred to me that, while it didn’t excuse my carelessness, might make it a little easier for me to accept.

‘‘The condo,’’ I said. ‘‘I understood it was in both names.’’

‘‘Oh, it was,’’ Peter confirmed. ‘‘You know, Mary Ann and Meredith were closer than regular sisters—twins are special, I guess. Besides,’’ he explained, ‘‘ever since they were kids, Meredith kind of looked after Mary Ann—al

most like a second mother. And then when Meredith bought the apartment, Mary Ann had just broken off her engagement, and she was pretty down in the dumps. Maybe

that had something to do with it, too. Anyhow, Meredith insisted on putting the place in both names. Mary Ann didn’t want that, but she couldn’t talk Meredith out of it. She finally agreed, but with the provision that if either of them got married, she’d sign her interest in the apartment over to Meredith.’’

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CAN
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And that’s when I said, almost casually, ‘‘I don’t imagine you have any idea if Meredith made out a will or not.’’

Considering how it reflected on me, I was almost sorry to hear the reply. ‘‘I think she made one out a few weeks after they came over from London. I know she
had
one, anyway.’’

‘‘Would you know who her lawyer was?’’

‘‘Uh-uh. I’m afraid not.’’

‘‘Do you, by any chance, have any idea what was
in
the will?’’

‘‘I suppose I do, more or less. It came up in a conversa

tion I had with Mary Ann one night.’’

I
couldn’t
believe
it!
Why
hadn’t
he
said
anything
to
me
before?
The answer, of course, was obvious:
Why
hadn’t
I
asked?

‘‘See, family really matters to Mary Ann,’’ Peter contin

ued. ‘‘And she used to talk a lot about how sad it was that Meredith refused to patch things up with Eric. But this one particular time she went on to say how Meredith’s will left everything to her, and if she—Mary Ann—died first, then the money would all go to this AIDS foundation. She felt pretty terrible about that.’’

‘‘At least Meredith picked a good cause,’’ I remarked.

‘‘That was because of her husband.’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘I told you he was a drug addict, right?’’

‘‘I think so. Someone did, anyway.’’

‘‘And that he died of AIDS?’’

‘‘No, you never mentioned that,’’ I answered, not yet realizing the significance of Peter’s words. ‘‘I was under the impression he’d died of a brain tumor. That’s what Eric Foster said.’’

‘‘Meredith asked Mary Ann to tell him that. She didn’t want people to know about the AIDS—Eric especially, I guess.’’

I started to say something—I’m not even sure what it was—and then it hit me. ‘‘Oh, my God,’’ I murmured.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Meredith . . . she wasn’t . . .
she
didn’t have AIDS, did she?’’

‘‘Mary Ann told me she tested negative,’’ Peter answered

a little uncertainly.

‘‘Didn’t you believe her?’’

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‘‘Of course I did.’’

‘‘But?’’

‘‘But, well, they say it could take a long time for anything to show up in the tests. So who knows if she was really out of the woods yet?’’

Chapter 29

He didn’t say so, but I had the strong impression that Peter was relieved to finally unburden himself to someone. And having broken his silence, he seemed almost anxious to get to the precinct now, too. After all, it would almost certainly lead to the lifting of his hospital ban.

Rejecting my offer to accompany him, Peter called the station to make sure Fielding was in. Then we talked for a few minutes about just how much he’d tell the police. We agreed there was no reason to divulge any more about his whereabouts that night than they needed to know—which was that he’d been in this Frankie’s apartment at the time of the shootings. And, if pressed on his refusal to disclose the information earlier (as we were both certain he would be), he intended to say there were personal reasons. Which, no doubt, would provide a little food for Walter Corcoran’s dirty little thoughts.

A couple of minutes after Peter left, I graciously decided to forgive Ellen for doing my job better than I did. ‘‘You were right,’’ I told her when I reached her on the phone. She was so thrilled you would have thought
I’d
done some

thing for
her
.

When our brief conversation was finished, I got busy making some notes, and then I spent a long time mulling over them.

At four o’clock, I headed for the Berkeley Theater—and

a talk with Larry Shields.

The director was up onstage working with a few of the cast members when I walked in. He spotted me before I was even halfway up the aisle, acknowledging my presence just long enough to shout, ‘‘We’re in the middle of a re

hearsal here!’’

I approached the stage anyway.

When he looked over at me this time, he held up his

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hand to the others for quiet and came toward the footlights.

‘‘What is it you want now?’’ he called down, scowling.

‘‘I just learned something you might be interested in hearing about.’’

He thought for a moment, then said brusquely, ‘‘All right, but I can’t talk to you today. Come by tomorrow—

say, seven-thirty.’’

‘‘In the evening?’’ I asked hopefully.

‘‘A.M. Is that a problem?’’

‘‘No, no. No problem at all.’’ What the hell, there
were
some things that took precedence over sleep.

Shields was just opening the door to the theater when I got there.

‘‘How about letting me buy you breakfast?’’ I offered.

‘‘No, thanks,’’ he said curtly.

As soon as we were seated in his office, I learned the answer to at least one thing that had been puzzling me: why he’d been so hostile to me recently. (Just thinking about last week’s phone conversation with him was enough

to give me frostbite.) And the thing is, I didn’t even have to ask.

‘‘Did you know,’’ he demanded, ‘‘that with the help of one of the doctors at St. Catherine’s, I had finally per

suaded the police to let me into that hospital room?’’

‘‘No, I didn’t.’’

‘‘Really? I’m surprised,’’ he remarked archly. ‘‘Before I ever made it there, though, they’d changed their minds. It seems someone told Sergeant Fielding this story about Merry and me having some kind of argument. Now, I heard

somewhere that you and Fielding are pretty good buddies. It wouldn’t have been you who repeated that stupid story, would it?’’

I could feel my face growing warm, and I was praying I wouldn’t give myself away with one of those awful flushes of mine at the same time that I was certain I was already doing just that. I tried sidestepping the question anyway.

‘‘Why would I do a thing like that?’’ I said, not meeting his eyes.

‘‘Why don’t
you
tell
me
. It happens to be a damned lie, you know.’’

‘‘I don’t think so,’’ I responded in this calm, soft voice.

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‘‘Look, I just found out that Meredith’s husband died of AIDS.’’

Now it was Shields who flushed deeply. He didn’t say anything for quite a while, just stared straight ahead, and I sat there uneasily, fidgeting with my shoulder bag, while I waited for his response.

‘‘Who told you?’’ he murmured at last.

‘‘That’s not really important, is it?’’

‘‘No,’’ he answered sadly.

‘‘You were furious, weren’t you, because Meredith didn’t

tell you about the AIDS? Before you became intimately involved, I mean.’’

‘‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. But only at first.’’

‘‘What changed your mind?’’

‘‘Well, for one thing, it wasn’t as though Merry was HIV

positive; she wasn’t. And she swore to me—and I believe her—that she and Garibaldi, her husband, stopped having marital relations in October of 1990, when he was diag

nosed with the disease. Merry and I didn’t begin seeing each other until November ’91—sometime around the mid

dle of November, it was. Which means that according to her best information—according to
anyone’s
best informa

tion—there was no longer any question of her being a car

rier. If you test HIV negative for a year after you’ve been exposed to the disease, you’re not at risk anymore.’’

‘‘But that was cutting it awfully close, wasn’t it?’’

‘‘Not really. A year is the
outside
limit. But still, I felt I was at least entitled to know about a thing like that. Once I’d cooled off a little, though, I tried putting myself in Mer

ry’s shoes. She’d been given a clean bill of health before we even met, so it wasn’t as though there was a danger of her infecting me. And then I wondered what I would have done if the situation had been reversed. I like to think I would have said something to her before we became lovers, but who really knows what they’ll do until they’re there?