Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (13 page)

‘‘No, no, of course not,’’ a thoroughly confused Will Fitz

gerald assured her.

‘‘I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t attempt to pursue this relationship. I know it’s very shallow of me, but I really
do
prefer taller men.’’

Chapter 9

Miraculously, Ellen managed to contain herself until Will was not only out of the apartment but probably in the ele

vator on his way downstairs. Then came the deluge.

‘‘He c-certainly was anxious to g-get away from me,’’ she gulped between sobs. ‘‘And what does a lawyer need with a b-b-beeper, anyway?’’

‘‘It’s for dire emergencies like tonight,’’ I said tartly.

‘‘And I bet they come up all the time.’’ Then I hugged her awkwardly and added ‘‘The guy’s a pig’’ before running into the bathroom for what was left of the tissues. For the next fifteen minutes, I was busy telling Ellen what scum Will was and how attractive
she
was. ‘‘Any man whose measure of a woman is her bustline has got to be the world’s foremost jerk,’’ I summed up.

Ellen’s comment was drowned out by her snuffles, so I went with an all-purpose response. ‘‘Okay. Maybe you’re not a forty-D. But then,’’ I reminded her, ‘‘neither is Au

drey Hepburn.’’

I think that made her feel better. Anyway, she pulled herself together a short time later and, at my insistence, spent the night on my sofa.

I went to bed as soon as I got Ellen settled, but it took me a long time to fall asleep. I was too busy making plans. I was going to hire myself a hit man. Of course, I’d have to find out first where to get one and then make a few inquiries about the going rate. Wait a minute. . . . On sec

ond thought, I’d have Fitzgerald’s kneecaps broken instead. (Would I still need a hit man for that, I wondered, or were kneecaps a specialty field?) But that idea eventually went by the boards, too, in favor of a scheme in which I person

ally did the slime in. The last thing I remember before dropping off was this mental picture of me behind the wheel of a sleek, black car, smiling gleefully as I ran Fitz

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gerald down and then slowly backed up over his lifeless body.

I woke up at seven, and the little scenarios I’d conjured up at midnight seemed a lot more improbable and a little less appealing in the light of day. (Although, to be honest, the idea of
one
broken kneecap still held a very strong attraction for me.) Anyway, after a large breakfast, which a much improved—even if far from cheerful—Ellen insisted

on preparing, I headed for the office.

Jackie, my secretary, was on the phone when I walked in. ‘‘This is for you,’’ she said, putting the call on hold, ‘‘a Dr. Gail Schoenfeld.’’

Dr. Schoenfeld, it turned out, was one of the emergency room doctors who had tended to the twins the night they were shot. But, as Carmen had predicted, she had nothing to add to what ridiculously little I already knew. I devoted most of that morning to making phone calls, which is something I’m very unfond of (an unfortunate aversion for a P.I.). But I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to make contact with the outside world.

First, I tried the Hyatt. Again, Eric Foster was out. This time, though, I figured I’d better leave word. It was awk

ward going through the operator, so I limited the message to saying that I was a private investigator working for Peter Winters and that it was urgent Mr. Foster call me back as soon as he could. ‘‘You’ll see that he gets this?’’ I asked the operator harmlessly—if unnecessarily.

‘‘Yes, of course,’’ she retorted in a tone that made it clear that what she was
really
saying was: ‘‘What do you think I’m here for, stupid?’’

After that, it was time to take a crack at the other two friends on Peter’s list. I got out the telephone directory and found phone numbers—or, at least,
probable
numbers—for both of them.

The name I’d written down directly below Lydia Brod

sky’s was Charlotte Bromley. There was a C. Bromley on West 20th Street, and Peter had told me Charlotte lived downtown somewhere.

The answering machine let me know I’d come to the right place.

‘‘Hello, this is Charlotte,’’ a breathy, little-girl voice in

formed me. ‘‘I’m taking a well-deserved vacation, but I’ll

78

Selma
Eichler

be home on March sixteenth. Please leave a message, and I promise I’ll return your call when I get back. And don’t forget to wait for the beep.’’

The
hell
with
the
beep!
March
sixteenth?
That
was
a
month
away!
‘‘Damn!’’ I grumbled, clicking off. Dialing Claire Josephs, who lived in the twins’ building, I was primed for another conversation with a machine. It took a couple of seconds for it to register that there was a real live person on the other end of the line.

The woman sounded totally frazzled. And who could

blame her? A baby was shrieking in the background, and the sound was so piercing that, even as removed from it as I was, it jangled every nerve in my body.

When I asked about meeting with her, Josephs informed

me that her son was suffering from a slight ear infection. The pediatrician who had seen him first thing that morning assured her it was nothing serious, but try telling Greggie that, she said. Then, apparently inspired by having some

one—
anyone
—over age three to talk to, she rattled on about how she was quite used to Greggie’s doing more than his fair share of squalling—he was colicky right from the start—but these last two days, he was really driving her over the edge. She did want to get together with me, though, she put in quickly. ‘‘Why don’t you come over later in the week?’’ she suggested. Then she added almost prayerfully, ‘‘I’m
sure
he’ll be better by that time.’’

‘‘Whenever you say,’’ I told her.

‘‘How’s Thursday?’’

Thursday was good.

‘‘Could you be here in the afternoon? Around two?’’ She

was practically yelling now in an attempt to be heard over the screeches, which seemed to get louder by the second.

‘‘That’s when the baby has his nap,’’ she shouted at top volume, ‘‘so it’s the best time to come.’’

I hurriedly agreed, only too anxious to get out of earshot of little whatever-his-name-was.

I left both my phone numbers in case there was any change in plans, and we hung up. For a couple of minutes, I did absolutely nothing but luxuriate in the comparative quiet of my moderately noisy surroundings.

It was about quarter of eleven, when I was on my way to the water fountain, that I came face-to-face with Will Fitzgerald.

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He spoke in the most sincere voice imaginable. ‘‘Hi, De

siree. I was just coming in to see you. That dinner last night was absolutely terrific—one of the best I’ve ever had. I’m only sorry I had to run out like that. I found a real mess when I got home, too.’’

I gazed at him stone-faced as he went on. ‘‘Those guys sure cleaned me out. They got away with my TV, the new six-hundred-buck stereo system I bought when I moved to New York, and the Omega watch my grandfather gave me when I graduated from law school. And God knows what else they boosted that I’m not even aware of yet!’’

I suppressed the urge to tell him to drop dead; that would hardly have been ladylike.

‘‘Immolate yourself, huh, Will?’’ I suggested instead be

fore turning my back and walking briskly away.

Right before noon, I heard from the other emergency room doctor. He was very nice but as uninformative as his colleague had been. ‘‘We were terribly busy that night,’’ he said regretfully. ‘‘Besides, those women spent hardly any time in emergency; we had to rush them right into O.R.’’

Well, it was what I’d expected, wasn’t it? Nevertheless, the morning had left me so thoroughly drained that I de

cided to treat myself to pizza for lunch. But when I was sitting there at the counter at Little Angie’s, nibbling away at the absolutely thinnest, crispiest crust in the city, the back end of Lydia Brodsky suddenly flashed before my eyes.

And I limited myself to two slices.

Chapter 10

I got home a little after six, and the red light on my answer

ing machine was flashing.

The first message was from Kirsten Anderssen. ‘‘Carmen

Velez asked me to call you,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m the other E.R. nurse who took care of those twins you wanted to know about. But I couldn’t possibly tell you what they were wear

ing.’’ Then she went into all these details about how fren

zied things were in emergency that night, prattling on and on until the machine, mercifully, cut her off in midword. The second message was from Eric Foster. ‘‘I’m on my way to a business dinner with an associate just now,’’ he said, sounding veddy British. ‘‘I’ll ring you when I get back to my hotel if it isn’t too late. Otherwise, you’ll hear from me in the morning.’’

Peter was next. ‘‘Everything’s status quo at this end,’’ he reported. ‘‘I’m calling because I spoke to Maureen the other day, and she made me promise not to forget to send you her love. But, well, I forgot.’’

I was shaking my head in exasperation and grinning at the same time. That was
so
Peter.

I ate very well that evening on the leftovers from Sun

day’s disastrous little get-together—or whatever you want to call it. Then I turned on the television. I soon found out that my tolerance level for Monday evening’s sitcoms was practically at ground zero that night, and I kept on playing with the remote until I succeeded in getting myself nuts. I finally shut off the set, went to the bookshelf, and took down an Agatha Christie.
Sad
Cypress
. That was one I’d only read twice—three times, tops—so it would be practi

cally like a new experience for me.

At ten, I dragged myself away from Hercule to call Ellen. But she beat me to it. The phone rang just as I was about to lift the receiver.

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I wanted to ask if she was okay, but if she
was,
the question might remind her that she had reason not to be. So I clamped a lid on myself and went to something innocu

ous. ‘‘When did you get in?’’

‘‘About a half hour ago. And I put your care package to

good use. I had a big slice or roast beef, some Yorkshire pudding, and a
huge
portion of the potato casserole,
and
I polished off the lemon souffle´. I made such a pig of myself that I am now ready to barf.’’

‘‘Gee, Ellen, thanks so much for sharing that with me.’’

We both laughed (although Ellen doesn’t really
laugh;
she giggles), and I decided that she certainly
seemed
to have recovered from her lovely evening at Aunt Dez’s.

‘‘How’s the case coming?’’ she asked.

‘‘Damned if
I
know,’’ I grumbled.

I hadn’t exactly made any monumental inroads in the investigation so far, and I was beginning to feel a little discouraged. (Patience may be a virtue, but it’s never been one of mine.) So it didn’t bother me to hear Ellen—who is president and sole member of my fan club—swear that I would definitely solve the case and that I was the
only
one
who’d be able to do it because I was so much more clever and resourceful than the police or
anyone
. (I men

tioned how exceptionally wise Ellen is in some ways, didn’t I?)

Anyway, our conversation boosted my confidence a little,

and I went back to my mystery, certain I could even keep pace with the indomitable Poirot. Especially the second time around.

When I walked into the office in the morning, there was a message waiting on my desk. It was from Eric Foster, and he’d provided a number where he could be reached. I didn’t waste any time in returning the call.

‘‘Foster here,’’ said last night’s clipped British accent.

‘‘This is Desiree Shapiro.’’

‘‘Oh, yes, Ms. Shapiro.’’ His tone grew solemn. ‘‘You phoned me yesterday. About my sisters, I would guess.’’

‘‘That’s right. I wonder if I could come over and see you—as soon as possible.’’

‘‘Well, my firm just made a furnished flat available to me

for as long as I’m here in New York, and I’ll be moving in later this afternoon. But it shouldn’t take very long to get