Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (41 page)

sakes, was verify what we already knew about the terms of the thing from Winters. But young Perry Mason was claim

ing privileged communication. Said if we gave him Mere

dith’s death certificate he’d probate the will, and
then
we could find out what was in it. I came close to strangling the little puke!’’

‘‘Didn’t you explain
why
you couldn’t give him a death certificate?’’

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‘‘What do
you
think? I finally told him he could . . . Well, forget what I told him. Anyhow, since we had probable cause, it wasn’t too tough getting Judge Wilhelm to issue a search and seizure.’’

‘‘What did you find out?’’

‘‘There were no surprises. It appears your client actually got something right, for a change.’’

I knew Fielding was riding me; nevertheless, I felt obli

gated to protest. ‘‘Wait just a damned minute—’’

‘‘Hey, I like Winters myself,’’ he broke in, grinning. ‘‘But you gotta admit, he
is
kind of an airhead.’’

‘‘He is not!’’ I responded heatedly. ‘‘He’s very bright; it’s just that he’s been under so much strain with this thing.’’

Fielding put up his hand. ‘‘Okay, you win. But you men

tioned before that
you
had something to tell
me
.’’

Now, my good friend was so pleased with himself for finally uncovering those missing assets that I didn’t want to stomp on his ego by letting him know I’d reached the same conclusion he had (although he probably wouldn’t have be

lieved me, anyway). At any rate, I said I’d wait until after we ordered, since I figured that would buy me enough time

to come up with some plausible substitute for the theory I’d intended discussing with him, which, of course, he’d already unknowingly confirmed. If you can follow that. Fielding vetoed the postponement. ‘‘You might as well spill it now,’’ he told me, scanning the room. ‘‘I don’t see our waiter anywhere; I think the guy must have gone on sabbatical.’’

‘‘It . . . uh . . . really wasn’t anything important,’’ I said, floundering for a moment. Then it occurred to me:
Helen
Ward!
‘‘But, on the other hand,’’ I amended hastily, ‘‘it
was
kind of enlightening. . . .’’

A few minutes after I quickly recapped what I’d learned from Ward, our waiter materialized and we ordered lunch. It was a delightful meal. Although I did feel a
little
guilty enjoying it at Fielding’s expense knowing that, once again, I planned to try and beat him to the punch with Bromley. But, unwittingly, Fielding had his revenge.

Thanks to
his
damned restaurant, I woke up that night with a first-class case of food poisoning.

Chapter 42

I stayed home Thursday and Friday.

All of Thursday I remained within dashing distance of the bathroom. And except for a brief call to Jackie telling her I wouldn’t be in (which I didn’t
dare
forget to make), I avoided all human contact. The phone rang once late in the afternoon, but I couldn’t even consider answering it, and the caller didn’t leave a message. But who cared? I was too busy praying for death.

Friday was somewhat better. I made myself some tea and

toast around eight, when I got up, and at a little after ten I heard from Peter.

He was jubilant. ‘‘Mary Ann remembered something last

night! She said, ‘The play; there was this play . . .’ That’s all she said, but it’s the first time she remembered
anything
. It’s the proof you’re always talking about, Desiree—the proof that she really
is
Mary Ann!’’

I didn’t know how to respond.

‘‘Don’t you
get
it? We
met
at a play!
That’s
what she was referring to!’’

What good would it have done to point out that those words could as easily have come from Meredith—more eas

ily, in fact? I was sure the same thought had entered Peter’s mind, too; only he’d shoved it right out again. And the thing is, I couldn’t really blame him.

My next call, at a little before noon, was from Stuart. He’d tried me at the office just to say hello, he said, and Jackie told him about the food poisoning. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’ he asked solicitously.

I assured him that I was a lot better than yesterday.

‘‘I’ve been meaning to call you, but I just haven’t had a chance. I don’t think I’ve ever been this busy in my life,’’

he explained. ‘‘But listen, I’ve been thinking. Instead of going upstate to my brother’s place when this madness is

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over, it might not be a bad idea to take a week off and fly down to Nassau or Bermuda—somewhere like that. What do
you
think?’’

I wasn’t sure just how he meant that, so I answered cau

tiously. ‘‘Sounds good to me. And you’ll certainly be able to use a vacation after tax season.’’

‘‘I wasn’t just talking about me; I meant the two of us. Hopefully, by that time you’ll have everything wrapped up, too. How’s it coming, by the way?’’

Knowing how busy he was, all I said was that things were

finally falling into place and I’d fill him in when I saw him. He was apparently more than willing to settle for that.

‘‘Well, how about it?’’ he asked then. ‘‘Think you could go for a little R&R at some tropical island paradise?’’

‘‘I might be able to force myself.’’

He promised to pick up some travel folders as soon as he could.

And I hung up happy.

Don’t get me wrong. Stuart and I will never be more to one another than good friends. But I’d been missing the physical part of our relationship more and more lately—

slut that I am. Besides, think of all the calories I’d be burn

ing off!

I fixed myself a light lunch after that. And a short while later, inspired by thoughts of my liaison with Stuart, I de

cided to tackle this other matter I’d been meaning to see to. Now, I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but I’m not really much of a telephone person. Sometimes I have to psych myself up to make a normal business call. And what I had in mind right then was a whole lot trickier. You wouldn’t believe how nervous I was just dialing that

number. The only thing that got me through it was the almost certain conviction he wouldn’t be home.

‘‘Lynton,’’ he announced, picking up on the first ring.

‘‘This is Desiree Shapiro, Mike—the woman who spent so much time at your feet last Sunday night, remember?’’

That carefully rehearsed line brought the hoped-for re

sponse. ‘‘I remember,’’ the young doctor answered,

chuckling.

I mentally rolled up my sleeves. For the past few days, I’d really been agonizing over how to present my proposi

tion without sounding like a terrible busybody. But I’d fi

nally concluded that there was no way to
avoid
sounding

250

Selma
Eichler

like a terrible busybody. So I just took a deep breath and said, ‘‘I hope you won’t think I’m too forward, but . . . uh

. . . I was wondering, do you have a girlfriend?’’
There
must
have
been
a
more
tactful
way
to
put
that!

A long pause. Then Lynton answered warily, ‘‘Well, I
do
see this one woman.’’

He really wasn’t very convincing. And at that moment it occurred to me we might have a little glitch in communica

tions here. ‘‘You don’t think . . . that is, I hope you realize I’m not asking for myself,’’ I tittered.

‘‘Oh, of course not,’’ Lynton lied, an audible exhale be

traying his relief.

With that clarified, I barreled ahead. ‘‘I have this lovely young niece,’’ I told him, ‘‘and I just
know
you two would get along. Believe me, I wouldn’t be making such a com

plete ass of myself if I weren’t
positive
you’d hit it off.’’

‘‘I’m sure your niece is great, but I never go out on blind dates.’’ Then—in what was unmistakably a preface to terminating the call—he said quickly, ‘‘It was nice of you to think of me, though.’’

‘‘But it doesn’t have to be really blind,’’ I said just as quickly. ‘‘I could send you a picture of Ellen. Ellen Kravitz is her name, by the way.’’

There was a smile in Lynton’s voice now. ‘‘Thanks, but I’m really not—’’

‘‘A video?’’

He laughed. ‘‘You don’t give up, do you?’’

‘‘Look, what have you got to lose? Meet her for a drink or something. If you like each other, fine. If you don’t, all you’ve wasted is about a half hour of your whole life.’’

A moment’s hesitation. ‘‘I don’t know. I—’’

He never got a chance to finish what by now had with

ered to a halfhearted protest. I closed in for the kill. ‘‘Do you realize how many wonderful experiences you can miss out on by being overly cautious?’’

‘‘Well . . .’’

‘‘She’ll pay for her own drink. Hey, maybe I can even talk her into paying for yours.’’

‘‘Okay, okay,’’ he said laughing heartily at this point.

‘‘You can stop selling; I surrender. Let me have her number.’’

‘‘You’ll call her?’’

‘‘I’ll call her. Scout’s honor.’’

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At nine-thirty that night I reached Ellen. I could hardly wait to fill her in on my coup.

She didn’t exactly applaud my efforts. ‘‘You did
what
?’’

was how she put it. Then, on the very brink of tears: ‘‘I can just imagine what he thinks of me, having my aunt drum up dates for me that way! He’s probably got me down

as a total reject! What’s next? Are you planning to stand on a street corner with a lasso?’’

Now, while past experience wouldn’t let me discount the possibility that Ellen might be a little embarrassed by my contacting Mike Lynton, past experience had also led me to believe she’d get over it in about three minutes. Appar

ently it was different this time. And what was worse, I had just accomplished the last thing in the world I’d intended: to further erode Ellen’s already very eroded self-con

fidence.

I pointed out then that, if anything, Lynton might have the idea there was something weird about
me
—not
her
. After which I went on to rave about all of the young doc

tor’s admirable qualities (and I did very well by him, too, considering our rather brief acquaintanceship).

‘‘Look, he’s not going to call; he said he would just to get rid of you. But even if he
does
call, I won’t see him,’’

my usually pliable niece stated firmly. ‘‘Not if I want to have any respect for myself at all.’’

That’s pretty much how we left things. And afterward I spent a long time trying to justify my actions to myself. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for Ellen. I just wanted

to see her meet someone she could care for; was that so wrong? Besides, I
had
to make up for Will Fitzgerald. All right. So maybe I did get a little carried away, phon

ing someone I hardly knew like that. But my heart was certainly in the right place. The trouble was—I finally got around to conceding—my brains must have traveled south. Thanks to me, Ellen now felt like one of the ten most desperate women on the planet.

God! When would I learn to mind my own business?

I vowed then and there that I’d never
ever
meddle in her personal life again. Well, anyway, not for a long, long time. Chapter 43

Ellen and I had never had words before—at least, not like this. And it was making me nuts. I considered giving her a call on Saturday morning, but I was afraid she’s ream me out some more or even refuse to talk to me altogether—

both of which, looking back, I realize would have been totally unlike her. But anyway, I took the cowardly route, persuading myself it would be better to wait a couple of days and give her a chance to cool off a little. Pat Martucci phoned me late Saturday afternoon. Her latest, Peter Castle (yes, the guy with the
Crazy
for
You
tickets), was out of town for the day. And she wanted to know how I felt about dinner and a movie. I said I felt fine about it. I was getting pretty tired of staring at the four yellowing white walls.

When I got home from my night out with Pat, there was a message on the machine: ‘‘Aunt Dez? Please call me.’’

I checked my watch: twelve-fifteen. Damn! It was too late to get back to her tonight; I’d call first thing in the morning.