Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (8 page)

‘‘What did she say?’’

‘‘She told me Meredith wasn’t home yet but that she could be walking in any minute. Then she laughed and she said, ‘And if Merry doesn’t get here on time, the hell with her. I’ll eat
her
portion, too.’ Those were practically her exact words. She
didn’t
say, ‘So-and-so is here, and maybe he’ll volunteer, too.’ Well, that certainly didn’t sound to me like there was anybody else in the apartment.’’

It didn’t sound that way to me, either. ‘‘What hap

pened next?’’

‘‘At ten minutes to eight, I rang the doorbell, souffleín hand. But nobody answered. I really didn’t know what to make of it, but what could I do? You have to understand that I had no reason to think anything
dire
had happened.’’

Springer was looking at me as though begging for

reassurance.

‘‘No, of course you didn’t,’’ I obliged.

‘‘Anyway, I went back to my own apartment and had some of the souffle´ myself. Naturally, it was flat as a pan

cake by then, but I wasn’t concerned about that; I’d
seen
that it could rise to magnificent heights. I just wanted to find out how it
tasted
.’’

‘‘What made you call the Foster apartment again?’’ I asked, trying to move him along.

‘‘I can’t even tell you. It just kept bugging me—Mary Ann’s not answering. I couldn’t understand it, you know?

So after I had the souffleánd a cup of coffee to go with it, I picked up the phone.’’

‘‘It never crossed your mind that something might have suddenly come up and Mary Ann had to run out at the last minute?’’

‘‘Of course. That was the first thing I thought of. But she was expecting me. And, knowing Mary Ann, she wouldn’t

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have gone out without calling me first. Not unless it was a real emergency, anyway.’’

‘‘So you were worried.’’

‘‘Not exactly. At least, not then. I think curious would be more like it. I was just wondering what could have hap

pened. I never
dreamed
. . .’’ He seemed to shrink from putting the rest of the thought into words.

‘‘You had no reason to suspect anything. None at all,’’ I told him firmly.

Springer gave me a grateful little smile before going on.

‘‘Anyway, after the phone call, I sat down to do some work that I’d brought home from the office, but I just couldn’t concentrate. Who knows? Maybe by then I
was
getting a little worried. Maybe it was some sort of premonition.’’

‘‘So you went back over. The door was open that time?’’

‘‘Just partially. Six inches maybe. I stood there in the doorway and called out. But nothing. Not a sound. So, without even thinking about what I was doing, I started to walk in. That’s when I saw her—Meredith, the cops say it was. God! She was all covered with blood. . . .’’ He sat there for a moment, recalling the horror. Then he asked softly, almost fearfully, ‘‘Do they have any idea yet who did it?’’

‘‘Not yet.’’

‘‘How’s Peter holding up?’’

‘‘He’s in a lot of pain. But he
is
holding up. You know Peter?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. I’ve met him a number of times.’’

‘‘You were very friendly with the twins, I gather.’’

‘‘They were dear, dear friends of mine.’’

‘‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm either of them?’’

‘‘Good grief, no! They were both wonderful ladies.’’

‘‘Think. Please. Is there anything you can tell me about their relationships with other people that might help? Any

thing at all?’’

Springer’s high forehead wrinkled up like an accordion. Then, closing his eyes and pursing his lips, he seemed to retreat into an almost trancelike state. But when he spoke a few moments later, it was to tell me what I already knew: that, years ago, Meredith had had a falling out with her brother over her future husband and that Mary Ann had been engaged to some lowlife whose name he couldn’t re

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CAN
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member. (In fact, he had serious doubts it had ever even been mentioned.)

I wasn’t ready to give up yet. ‘‘Mary Ann never had problems with anyone else?’’

‘‘If she
did,
she never told
me
about it.’’

‘‘And Meredith?’’

‘‘Meredith was very closemouthed. I didn’t even hear about this thing with Eric—that’s the brother—from her. Mary Ann brought it up after one of Eric’s trips to New York; she said how bad she felt that there was this rift in the family.’’

‘‘Mary Ann used to confide in you?’’

‘‘No, not really. As a matter of fact, she didn’t talk much more about personal things than Meredith did. And neither of them liked to dish, either. It was very disappointing sometimes,’’ Springer declared, grinning mischievously,

‘‘but I guess that’s one of the things that made them so nice.’’ In an instant, he turned serious again. ‘‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,’’ he said sadly.

Well, that was that. I might as well have stayed home and watched
Cheers
for all I’d found out here tonight. Then, just as I was getting to my feet, Springer stopped me cold. ‘‘Wait!’’ he commanded excitedly. ‘‘I just thought of something! I don’t see how it could have slipped my mind! It was only about a month ago, too!’’

‘‘What is it?’’ My heart was starting to thump like crazy.

‘‘Well, one night I went over there to see if I could store this casserole in their freezer; mine was packed, and theirs is always practically empty. Meredith answered the door—

she was home alone—and she said sure, no problem. But once I got inside, I realized she’d been crying. I didn’t know whether to mention anything or let it pass. But I didn’t want her to think I didn’t give a damn, you know? So I just asked if there was something wrong.’’

‘‘What did she say?’’

‘‘She said no, but the minute she said it, she burst into tears. I stood there patting her shoulder like a useless turd—I couldn’t think of what else to do; I’m terrible when it comes to things like that. And after a couple of minutes she pulled herself together and told me she’d just broken up with this guy she started going with recently. I’ve never met the man, but his name is Larry Shields and he was directing this new show she was in. Anyway, she said it

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was all her fault, that she’d done this terrible, unforgivable thing—I remember her using that word: ’unforgivable.’ And then she said she wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to kick her out of the show. She said that even if he didn’t, though, he’d probably never come near her again.’’

‘‘Did she tell you what it was she’d done?’’

‘‘No. That was all she said.’’

‘‘Did she ever mention it after that?’’

‘‘Well . . . no. The thing is, I was really busy with work right around then, so I didn’t see her for maybe five or six days. But I
was
concerned,’’ he put in quickly. It was obvi

ous the poor man’s overactive guilt mechanism was at it again. ‘‘Besides,’’ he rationalized, ‘‘she didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and I didn’t want to come off like some kind of a Nosy Parker, you know?’’

He waited for my nod before going on. ‘‘And then when

I
did
see her, she seemed happy enough. So I figured it had just been a little lover’s spat that she’d blown out of proportion—the way we all do, you know?—and that they probably got back together again. Which, I later found out, is exactly what
did
happen.’’ He looked at me anxiously.

‘‘You can see why it didn’t occur to me right away, can’t you? About the breakup, that is. I mean, it all worked out fine.’’

Well, it seems I’d finally learned something that made giving up my nine P.M. rendezvous with Ted Danson a lot easier to take. (He’s really too good-looking for my taste, anyway.)

I stood up then. We’d covered everything I could think of; also, I was anxious to talk to the doorman. But getting out of there wasn’t easy. I had to call upon all of my really pathetic willpower to decline a piece of the chocolate torte that, Chuck Springer pronounced, was one of his best recipes.

The doorman’s name was Harris. I don’t know if it was his first name or his last, because he just said, ‘‘Call me Harris.’’

‘‘I understand, Harris,’’ I put to him, ‘‘that you told the police the twins didn’t have any visitors Monday night.’’

‘‘That’s
not
what I said,’’ he responded emphatically.

‘‘What did you say?’’

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‘‘I said that nobody could have got up to that apartment while
I
was on duty. Not without my calling upstairs first.’’

‘‘Is there another way into the building?’’

‘‘Around the side, but you should get a load of the locks on that door. Anyhow, the police checked to make sure no

one broke in, and no one did.’’

‘‘Then how could this have happened? Do you think the killer may be someone living in the building?’’

‘‘Oh, I
hope
not!’’

‘‘Well, what
do
you think?’’

‘‘I think whoever it was did this snuck in during the shift before mine. Diaz—he’s on seven a.m. to three—walks around in a fog these days. I guess it’s because his wife’s expecting a baby, and it’s their first. Don’t get me wrong, Diaz is a good kid. But lately his body may be on West Fifteenth, but, most times, his head’s up on Mars.’’

I was skeptical. ‘‘If the murderer entered the building on Diaz’s shift, that would mean he had to hang around for hours.’’

‘‘That’s right. But he coulda hid out in the basement. Or a utility room, maybe. There are plenty of places to hide,’’

Harris said obstinately.

‘‘Was there anyone you saw
leaving
the building Monday night that you recognized as having visited the twins before?’’

‘‘Those two detectives already asked me that, and I told them no.’’

‘‘Isn’t it possible someone got by you?’’ I persisted.

‘‘After all, I don’t suppose it’s really crucial to screen peo

ple once they’ve already been upstairs. And if you’re busy with someone who’s on the way in . . .’’

Harris chewed that over for a couple of seconds before conceding reluctantly, ‘‘Well, I guess
that’s
possible. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, so there’s a
chance
I might’ve missed someone when they were leaving. Espe

cially if I was busy on the intercom or something. But one thing I’ll tell you for sure: Nobody got
in
without being announced; not on
my
shift.’’

I had this strong conviction that Harris was having a pretty hard time accepting the fact that the tragedy had occurred when he was on duty. Maybe he even felt that his job was on the line. At any rate, he’d managed to convince himself that poor Diaz was responsible for the killer’s hav

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ing gained access to the building. Well, he hadn’t con

vinced me.

‘‘What if someone had had a lot of packages that night?’’

I asked. ‘‘Wouldn’t you have lent a hand?’’

‘‘Sure. But nobody did. Besides, I always take care to lock the doors if I’m going to help someone over to the elevator, even though it doesn’t take more than a minute or two.’’ Then, with a look that can best be described as a glare, he defined his position on the matter again. ‘‘Listen,’’

he said irritably,’’ I keep telling you that when Diaz is on duty, he
isn’t
on duty, if you get my meaning.’’

For the life of me, I couldn’t see the perpetrator sitting on his hands—or any other part of his anatomy, for that matter—from three o’clock or even earlier until almost eight. And I hate loose ends. I
had
to find out how he was able to slip past Harris. ‘‘Look,’’ I said in this nice, even tone, ‘‘if something demanded your attention for only a few seconds, that’s all the killer would have needed to—’’

‘‘How many times do I have to tell you?’’ Harris inter

rupted angrily. ‘‘No one got past me. No one!’’

‘‘Sorry. Just one last question, okay?’’

‘‘What is it?’’ he said, his manner making it clear that one was all I’d get.

‘‘Did you have to provide any special assistance of
any
kind that night? To an older person? Or someone in a wheelchair? Or—’’

I could see that he was about to break in with another denial when suddenly he froze, his mouth hanging open and his skin rapidly losing its color.