Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (7 page)

‘‘It was the end of September. I attended an opening night production of
Show
Boat
. It was at one of those little theaters on the Lower East Side that’s so small and dilapi

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dated, it makes this place look like the Shubert.’’ His voice grew animated as he warmed to his subject. ‘‘It was really like amateur night there, too. The actors tried hard, but most of them were very young, and they just weren’t up to their parts. All except Merry.’’

Shields looked down at his hands then. I looked, too. He

was slowly, almost rhythmically, clenching and unclenching his fists. Without stopping, he said quietly, ‘‘I’d give any

thing for five minutes alone with the bastard who did this. Five minutes with him, that’s all I’d need.’’ A moment later, he very deliberately folded his hands in his lap, lifted his head, and told me sheepishly, ‘‘Sorry. I guess I got carried away.’’ Unexpectedly, he forced a grin. And, forced or not, for an instant his ordinary face wasn’t so ordinary after all.

‘‘Don’t apologize. Please. This must be very difficult for you.’’

‘‘It’s hell,’’ he replied simply.

‘‘You said you first saw Meredith in
Show
Boat,
’’ I prodded.

‘‘Right. She was playing Julie, the second female lead. Merry’s voice wasn’t great, but she really knew how to read a lyric. Mostly, though, I was impressed with the way she delivered her lines—her speaking lines. She even had the dialect down pat; you’d never know she’d been living in England most of her life. In fact, she was
so
good that I went to see the show again just before it closed.’’

‘‘So you and Meredith met in September?’’

‘‘No. We didn’t even meet that second time—which was at the beginning of November. After the performance, I was on my way backstage when I ran into an old friend, and by the time I broke away, Merry had left the theater. I was disappointed, but I decided it was probably just as well; I was seeing someone else at the time, and I had a feeling Merry could complicate things for me.’’

‘‘And then?’’

‘‘And then, less than a week after that, I went to a cock

tail party. And there was Merry. I broke off with the other woman a couple of days later.’’

‘‘This other woman—would you mind telling me who

she was?’’

Shields hesitated. ‘‘Lucille Collins,’’ he muttered, flushing.

Somehow, I wasn’t at all surprised. Well, it now seemed

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that Ms. Collins had a
couple
of reasons for not being overly fond of Meredith Foster. I said as much to Shields.

‘‘You’re wrong. Lucille isn’t like that. Besides, by the time I met Merry, things had already started to cool be

tween us.’’

‘‘On your part or hers?’’

The flush deepened. ‘‘Both. We probably would have

split up soon even if Merry hadn’t come into the picture.’’

I wondered, briefly, if that was true. But I realized it was something I’d never know. And, for that matter, Shields and Collins probably wouldn’t, either. Right now, though, it was time for me to wrestle with
that
question
again. It was not easy spitting it out. ‘‘Did you ever notice . . . uh, I mean, does she—Meredith . . . uh, Merry—have any distinguishing marks on her body?’’ (Believe me, practice does not always make perfect.)

‘‘The police asked me the same thing. They asked if I remembered seeing a small mole right next to her navel. But if Merry
was
the one they spotted that mole on, it must have been
very
small, because I never noticed it.’’

Then his voice broke as he added huskily, ‘‘God, I wish there
was
something. At least I’d
know
.’’

I shook my head, commiserating. Larry Shields truly ap

peared to be suffering, just as Peter was. I reminded myself he was a suspect. In fact, as far as I was concerned,
every

one
was a suspect—at least for the time being. My client excepted, of course.

‘‘They won’t even let me into the hospital room,’’ Shields fumed. ‘‘I keep trying to change their minds, but a lot of good it does talking to
those
assholes.’’ Suddenly he stood up. ‘‘I’d better snap out of it,’’ he said. ‘‘I have a rehearsal to direct. So if you’ll excuse me . . .’’

‘‘One more question. How did Collins feel about the part

she wanted going to Meredith? You never
did
say.’’

‘‘She wasn’t thrilled about it—naturally. But she under

stood. And she certainly didn’t hold it against Merry. Lu

cille’s a pro.’’

‘‘One thing more,’’ I put in hastily. ‘‘Where were you on Monday night between quarter to eight and nine o’clock?’’

‘‘In Brooklyn, having dinner with my mother.’’

‘‘Can anyone verify that?’’ I asked.

‘‘Does my mother count?’’ Shields asked back, almost playfully.

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‘‘I’m afraid not.’’

I walked out of the theater a few minutes later, marveling at how tight-lipped that little group had been. I mean, no one, other than Shields himself, had said a thing about the director’s previous relationship with Lucille Collins (and I had no doubt everyone was aware there’d been one—the

ater gossip being what it is).

And wasn’t it strange that nobody had mentioned Mere

dith’s involvement with Shields? Or that—in a profession rampant with egos—not one single person had speculated as to this being the real reason she’d wound up with the plum role of Hope?

Chapter 6

All in all, it had been a very tiring day. So at a little after eight-thirty, I took off my makeup, put on my pajamas, and got into my rattiest-looking, most comfortable bathrobe. (That’s one advantage of living alone; there’s no one to care if you look like the wrath of God. As long as you stay away from mirrors, that is.)

I confess that around then I was feeling pretty depressed about what I’d learned from Fielding earlier. (I could forget about that solemn vow I’d made myself to keep my feelings in check this time. I should have known, given my track record, that that wasn’t even a remote possibility.) The truth was, I had to admit, that there was a damned good chance—better than even, I figured—that Mary Ann had been shot before her sister got home. Maybe more than an hour before. And that meant she could have been lying there bleeding on the living room floor for a hell of a long time before EMS rushed her to St. Catherine’s. Which didn’t exactly put the odds of being the survivor in her favor.

But, hey, what did odds mean, anyway? Didn’t I play the

lottery? And what were the odds on
that
? And how about Publisher’s Clearing House? And that other one, the one Ed McMahon was always hawking? I wouldn’t be plunking

down all that money for tickets and postage if I didn’t believe you could beat the odds. So I was not going to think terrible thoughts. In fact, right now I was not going to think at all.

What I
was
going to do was plant myself in front of the TV for the entire evening.
Cheers
would be on soon. And, later, there was
L.A.
Law
. Not a bad night at all to put your brains on hold. But first I thought it might be a good idea to set something up with this Charles Springer—the neighbor who’d discovered the victims. Maybe I could get

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him to see me sometime tomorrow. I checked the tele

phone book, and there was a listing for a C. Springer at the twins’ address.

The man who answered the phone sounded hyper. He

spoke in a nasal, high-pitched voice, and the words tumbled out one after the other so quickly I wondered that he had time to breathe. When I told him I was a private investiga

tor and that I was working for Peter Winters, Mary Ann Foster’s fiance´, he said I could come over in about an hour. Now, I’d really been counting on a reprieve that night, but what could I do? P.I.s aren’t exactly on everyone’s ‘‘A’’

list. So if he was willing to meet with me, I wasn’t about to quibble.

I got dressed in record time (for me, anyway), practically jumping into my clothes and then slapping on some makeup and plopping on this wig I have that looks exactly like my own hair only it’s usually a lot easier to reason with. In less than three-quarters of an hour, I was in a taxi heading for West Fifteenth Street.

The twins’ apartment building, with its brand-new hunter

green canopy, white-gloved doorman, and huge, mirrored lobby, looked like it had been transplanted from Sutton Place. The elderly doorman instructed me to go right up; Mr. Springer was expecting me.

‘‘Listen, I’m a private investigator,’’ I told him before heading for the elevator. ‘‘Could we have a little talk when I come down? You
were
on duty Monday night, weren’t you?’’

‘‘That’s right. You want to know about the shootings?’’

‘‘I just want to check a couple of things with you.’’

‘‘Terrible what happened, wasn’t it? And the two of them

such pretty young girls. And always so pleasant, too. It’s a sorry mess this world of ours has come to, isn’t it?’’

‘‘It sure is,’’ I clucked. ‘‘I should be through upstairs in about half an hour. Okay?’’

‘‘No problem. I’m on till eleven.’’

Charles Springer was a short, thin man in his early thir

ties with a bad complexion, a friendly, if agitated, manner, and just a few strands of hair remaining on his domeshaped little head. He led me from a small foyer, papered in an interesting pink and silver geometric, into a large, elegant living room, which was eclectically furnished with

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striking contemporary pieces and handsome antiques (or very good reproductions; I’m not sure which). The room was done almost entirely in off-white, the major exception being a small turquoise velvet sofa accented with off-white and pink throw pillows. The pink was repeated in most of the soft pastel prints decorating the walls and in a stunning arrangement of silk flowers that was displayed in a contem

porary crystal vase standing atop an antique cherry sideboard.

‘‘What a beautiful room!’’ I exclaimed. I was seated on the turquoise sofa, with Springer sitting on the off-white berge`re at right angles to it.

‘‘Thank you so much,’’ he said, his face lighting up with pleasure. Then he confided, in that rapid-fire way he had,

‘‘I love to decorate. I just wish I could afford more than a studio. A little more space to work with, and I’d
really
be able to let loose. I wouldn’t need a place anything like the twins’, of course—’’ He broke off abruptly, and the glow was gone. ‘‘How is she? Do you know?’’ he demanded. ‘‘I just called St. Catherine’s a few minutes before you got here, but they said her condition was still critical.’’

‘‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard anything.’’

‘‘I don’t suppose they’ve figured out if it’s Mary Ann or Meredith who . . . who’s in the hospital?’’

‘‘No. It looks like that’ll take a while. I understand you were the one who found them.’’

‘‘Yes. And it was just awful,’’ Springer whispered. ‘‘I haven’t been able to get a night’s sleep since.’’

‘‘I don’t think I’d be able to, either,’’ I told him honestly.

‘‘The police say that the first time you called the apartment it was twenty to eight.’’

‘‘That’s right.’’

‘‘You’re sure of the time?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. I had something in the oven, and it had ten minutes to go.’’ Then he added the clincher: ‘‘You don’t make a mistake with the time when you’re baking a souffle´.’’

I couldn’t argue with that. I realize this may sound im

modest, but two of the extremely few blemishes on my own outstanding culinary record were souffle´-induced. So I accepted Springer’s declaration as gospel.

‘‘There’s no doubt, Mr. Springer, that it was Mary Ann who answered the phone?’’

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‘‘No. She told me it was. And, please, call me Chuck.’’

‘‘All right. And I’m Desiree. Did Mary Ann give you any indication there might have been somebody with her when you called?’’

‘‘Oh, no. Just the opposite, really. I said I’d just whipped up a strawberry souffleánd it would be ready in ten mi

nutes, and I asked if she and Meredith would volunteer to be my guinea pigs. You see,’’ he explained, ‘‘I’m expecting company next week, and it’s a new recipe, so I wanted to try it out beforehand.’’