Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (23 page)

‘‘For one thing, I can tell you they paid over a million for the apartment.’’

‘‘A million and a half, to be exact. Cash.’’

‘‘Cash?’’

‘‘You heard me. They handed over a certified check for one and a half big ones. What else have you got for me?’’

‘‘Peter doesn’t think Mary Ann made a will.’’

‘‘He told me that almost two weeks ago. Anything else?’’

‘‘Look, Tim, I
do
have some news for you, I swear, and I’ll fill you in in just a couple of minutes. But right now can we talk about who would profit from their deaths? Do you have any idea yet?’’

I braced myself for a hard time. Instead, Fielding sounded almost apologetic. ‘‘I really wish I had something to tell you, Dez. Besides your client, I’ve checked with the brother and Meredith’s boyfriend—Shields. No one admits to knowing anything about a will.’’

‘‘Maybe the girls didn’t have one; they were pretty young.’’

‘‘That’s certainly possible. But for the time being, I’m going to go under the assumption there
are
a couple of wills out there someplace.’’

‘‘If they exist, they’d probably be in a safe-deposit box, wouldn’t they? Would the police even be able to get into the box? I mean, since neither of the victims can be de

clared legally dead.’’

‘‘Not without showing probable cause, most likely. But you’re way ahead of yourself. The first thing to find out is if either of them even had a box. We checked with every bank in New York City, and guess what?’’

‘‘No box.’’

‘‘You got it. Not only that—and this is the really strange

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part—the only record we could find of a bank account for either of them is a joint checking account with a little over three thousand bucks and a business account of Mary Ann’s with a couple hundred in it. Doesn’t add up, does it?’’ Fielding mused. ‘‘The way I see it, anyone who can afford one and a half big ones for an apartment should have some other assets, too.’’

‘‘Maybe the rest of their money is in stocks and bonds,’’

I suggested. ‘‘Their father was a broker.’’

We looked at every piece of paper in that apartment, and

we couldn’t find a damn thing—no statements, no record of

anything like that. Nothing.’’

‘‘Wait a minute. That certified check for the apartment . . . ?’’

‘‘Drawn on a checking account at Chase. They opened it in September, right before they bought the place, and once the sale was completed, they closed the account.’’

‘‘Maybe they figured the apartment was a great invest

ment, so they sunk every penny they had into it.’’

‘‘Yeah, could be, I guess. But I dunno, something just doesn’t
feel
right.’’ Fielding reached for another donut.

‘‘Okay, now before you have to leave, I think there was something you wanted to pass along to me.’’

‘‘It’s about Mary Ann’s fiance´. His name’s—’’

‘‘Roger Hyer,’’ Fielding said before I could. ‘‘Foster told us. In fact, Corcoran spoke to Hyer on the phone yesterday. He’s going to be in town tomorrow, and he agreed to stop in and talk to us for a few minutes. Oh, and incidentally,’’

he deadpanned, ‘‘Walt’s off today; I hope you’re not too sorry you missed him.’’

I assured him there was no way Walter Corcoran, his asshole of a partner, would ever be missed. Then I told him about my meeting with Hyer on Friday. ‘‘He claims to have been in a bar in New Jersey the night of the shootings. I went out there last night to see the bartender, and it seems to check out.’’

‘‘Seems to?’’

‘‘There’s always the chance the bartender’s a friend of Hyer’s—he calls him Roger, by the way. There’s also the possibility that Hyer paid him to confirm the alibi or even that he blackmailed him.’’

‘‘Okay. We’ll see what we can get out of this bartender after we’re through with Hyer. Now, what else?’’

‘‘Well, I wanted to bounce something off you. I was talk

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ing to my niece Ellen the other day—you remember

Ellen—and she had this idea—’’

‘‘Swell. Now I’m gonna get a lesson in police work from a saleslady at Bloomingdale’s.’’

‘‘Assistant buyer—and it’s Macy’s,’’ I corrected, scowling at him. ‘‘And you didn’t let me finish. Ellen’s idea got me thinking, that’s all. Besides,’’ I added, just for his informa

tion, ‘‘Ellen happens to be very bright. Very.’’

With that off my chest, I told him how I came to remem

ber the twins’ childhood prank and how regarding the shootings as a crime of passion might very well explain their bizarre nature.

‘‘Let’s start with Larry Shields,’’ I said when I was through laying the groundwork. ‘‘He could have been mad enough at Meredith to blast her in the face. I mean, who knows with these lovers’ quarrels? And once he realized that Mary Ann had put one over on him—’’

‘‘Hold it right there. What’s this about a lover’s quarrel?’’

Fielding asked, coming to attention.

‘‘You didn’t know?’’

‘‘Me? I’m only a dumb cop. It’s you hotshot P.I.s and your helpers from Macy’s who manage to dig up all the juicy stuff.’’

I proceeded to impart the next-to-nothing I knew about Meredith’s argument with Shields. ‘‘But I haven’t finished nosing around yet. I’ll keep you posted,’’ I promised. Fielding nodded and mumbled something. It might even have been ‘‘Thanks.’’ Then he said, ‘‘I guess I can figure out for myself how this crime of passion thing would apply to Collins, so spare me. And incidentally, in case you’re not aware of it, Collins not only lost her part, she also lost her boyfriend to Meredith Foster.’’

‘‘I heard.’’

‘‘I should have figured,’’ he responded tartly. ‘‘One hitch occurs to me right away, though. If the idea was to off Meredith, it would make sense to try and get at her when she was alone. And neither of those two knew the sister was supposed to be out that night.’’

‘‘You’re just assuming that. Maybe Meredith said to Shields at the theater on Monday—you know, casually, in conversation—‘Mary Ann’s got these plans with her friend tonight, so it looks like I’m going to be all by my lonesome.’

Maybe she even said, ‘Why don’t you come over later and keep me company?’ And maybe Lucille Collins overheard

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that little invitation and also overheard Shields saying he couldn’t make it, that he was going to his mother’s.’’

‘‘I’ve never heard so many ‘maybes’ in my life. But go on. How does this crime of passion/mistaken identity busi

ness work with Hyer—or doesn’t it?’’

‘‘Oh, it does. But in his case it works a little differently.’’

‘‘I’m listening.’’

‘‘Okay, suppose Hyer finds out the girl he’s been carrying a torch for these past six months just got engaged to some

one else. Well, he rushes over there out for blood—in his frame of mind, he wouldn’t care
who
else was around—

and let’s say he gets Mary Ann to open the door by telling her he’s a delivery man or a maintenance man or some

thing, and then he forces his way inside. Now, we know Mary Ann would definitely not want to see this guy, right?

So what does she do?’’

Fielding recognized a cue when he was fed one. ‘‘Pre

tends to be her sister so she can get rid of the guy.’’

‘‘Exactly. Only Hyer doesn’t leave. They go into the liv

ing room, and Mary Ann—as Meredith—says something

that sets him off; it wouldn’t take much. And besides, the man drinks—I mean
really
drinks—which would only have aggravated the situation. At any rate, he lets the real Mary Ann have it, and then he waits for the woman he
thinks
is Mary Ann to come home.’’

‘‘For argument’s sake, I’ll go along with you so far,’’

Fielding said, ‘‘not wholeheartedly, you understand, but I’ll go along. Here’s where you lose me, though. Why in hell would he blast them
both
in the face?’’

‘‘Well, I’m not really sure, of course—’’

‘‘Big of you to admit it,’’ he commented wryly.

‘‘But anyway,’’ I went on, ignoring the remark, ‘‘maybe he just couldn’t bear looking at that face, so he destroyed it. Twice. Or maybe with all the alcohol he consumed, he just got muddled. Who knows?’’

‘‘Well,
I
certainly don’t,’’ Fielding responded, shaking his head. ‘‘This theory of yours has so many goddamn ‘maybes’

and ‘ifs’ and ‘possibles’ that you gotta forgive me if I don’t jump up and down. Anyway, I imagine a crime of passion would let Foster off the hook. Or am I just jumping to conclusions?’’

‘‘Don’t be so cute. It
would
let him off the hook. I’m inclined to think that if Eric Foster killed his sisters, it was

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because, as their next of kin, he stood to inherit a minimum of one and a half million dollars—the value of the condo.’’

‘‘Assuming,’’ Fielding said pointedly, ‘‘there’s no will around to change all that. Because if there is, we’ve got ourselves a whole different ball game. But tell me—and I’ll probably hate myself for asking—you got any theories to explain those shots in the face if money’s the motive?’’

‘‘No. At least not yet. But there’s also another possibility with Foster. Maybe there was more to his feud with Mere

dith than anyone’s aware of. And maybe
that
had some

thing to do with his blasting them in the face.’’

Abruptly, Fielding got up. ‘‘I can’t take any more ‘may

bes.’ Thanks for the donuts, Dez, and let me give you a hand with your coat.’’

‘‘Just two more minutes; I’m not quite through yet.’’

‘‘Oh, yes, you are,’’ he informed me, helping me to my feet and draping the coat around my shoulders.

‘‘The gun,’’ I put in quickly, ‘‘I don’t suppose you found it?’’

‘‘We did not.’’

‘‘And when am I going to be able to see that apartment?’’

‘‘I’ll let you know. Now go to work, will you? I’m gonna go take a couple of Tylenols. And listen,’’ he called out as I reluctantly walked away, ‘‘if you and Ellen come up with any more little theories like that, please, don’t feel obli

gated to share them.’’

That night, I met a friend of mine for dinner.

Pat Martucci, formerly Altmann formerly Greene for

merly Anderson, had just broken off with her most recent sig

nificant other, and she was as down in the dumps as I’d ever seen her. (As you can probably gather just from all those sur

names she’s accumulated, Pat has a big problem functioning without a man in her life.) Well, under the circumstances, I felt it incumbent upon me, her close friend and confidante, to spend a little time with her to try to cheer her up. It didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped—for either of us.

The truth is, it had been a long time since I’d had anyone special in my own life. And once in a while I couldn’t help letting it get to me. But by and large I handled things pretty well, I thought. That is, until that two-hour dose of a man

less Pat Martucci.

By the time we said good night in front of the restaurant,

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I was practically suicidal. Pat, however, thanked me for being there for her, assuring me that she felt
so
much better after our talk. I have to tell you, though, that she was wip

ing away a few tears when she said it.

It wasn’t even nine-thirty when I left Pat and, between feeling bad for her and worse for myself, I just couldn’t bring myself to go straight home. Which was probably a fortunate thing; it might not have been wise for me to be anyplace I’d have access to sharp knives and/or a gas oven. So, on the spur of the moment, I went to the movies. I don’t even recall what picture I saw. But I do remember it was a comedy and that when I got out of there, it was safe for me to go into the kitchen.

As soon as I came home, I checked the answering ma

chine for messages. There was only one. But it was the one we’d all been waiting for.

At first I didn’t even realize I was listening to Peter. His voice was about an octave higher than normal and just this side of hysterical. And the words spilled out in quick time.

‘‘Desiree? Peter. Big news! Finally! I stayed at the hospi

tal a little later tonight—I don’t know why. Anyway, I was there when it happened! I still can’t believe it! She came out of the coma! Isn’t that the greatest—the most sensa

tional—news you’ve ever heard? You can’t call me back; I’m not home. I’m at a bar near the hospital, and I was hoping you’d be able to meet me here and celebrate with me. But you’re not home, either. But I guess you realize that, don’t you?’’ Then came this silly laugh that was a true soulmate to Ellen’s giggle. ‘‘Listen, if I sound high to you,’’