Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (9 page)

‘‘What is it?’’

Just then, a young couple entered the building, and Har

ris held the door for them. When he turned back to me, the elderly doorman’s face was gray. ‘‘God help me,’’ he said softly, ‘‘I guess it could have happened when Mrs. Garvin came home.’’

‘‘When was that?’’ I asked gently. At that moment, I was

not too pleased with myself for doing my job.

‘‘Around seven-thirty. I think it could have been a few minutes after the first Foster twin came in; only don’t hold me to it. But I
do
remember thinking how late it was for Mrs. Garvin; she usually gets in around six. Well,’’ he went on, nervously licking his lips, ‘‘Monday night, she pulled up in this big stretch limo—she never came home by limo be

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fore—and the driver started unloading these two huge car

tons from the trunk. I found out later her office was moving, and the cartons were filled with papers she was storing in her apartment for the time being. But that’s not here or there, is it? Anyway, what happened was one of the cartons got stuck in the trunk, and the driver started yanking at it. All of a sudden-like, the carton came loose and it caught the guy off balance. I thought for sure he was going to drop it, so I ran over to give him a hand. But by the time I got to the curb, everything was okay; he had a good grip on it.’’

Harris paused for a second or two, then looked at me pleadingly. ‘‘All I did,’’ he said shakily, ‘‘was to run over to the limo—just a few yards away—and then turn right around and come back. So how long could I have been away from the door?’’

And then, in a strangled voice, he answered the question

himself: ‘‘Just long enough.’’

Chapter 7

Getting in touch with Peter wasn’t easy. First thing in the morning, I tried reaching him at the office number he’d given me. His secretary—or whoever it was who answered his phone—informed me that he’d taken a leave of absence. So I called him at home. I got the answering machine and left a message. Then I waited. And waited . . .

At noon, I went out to keep an appointment in connec

tion with one of the two other cases I was working on. And when I returned to the office an hour and a half later, I waited some more.

It was close to four when Peter finally got back to me.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve been at the hospital all day, and I just now called home for my messages.’’

‘‘How is she?’’

‘‘About the same,’’ he answered. But there was a little lift in his voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘‘I was speak

ing to her neurosurgeon today, though. And he says that every day she’s still alive, her chances go up. It’s Friday now—that’s
four
days
since she was shot. And they didn’t even expect her to last through the first night.’’

I wanted to respond with something positive to keep his spirits up, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility that at any moment the victim might take a turn for the worse. ‘‘She’s a real fighter,’’ I told him brightly, if a little cautiously.

‘‘She is, isn’t she?’’ Peter said with something like awe. And then he went on to talk about the one thing I’d been reluctant to even
think
about. ‘‘You know, the doctors say it’s still too early to determine the amount of brain damage. But the way I look at it, first, I want to know that it’s Mary Ann. And second, I want to see her out of that coma. After that, I can deal with whatever I have to when the time comes.’’

I was very touched by Peter’s love and courage and that

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almost childlike faith he seemed to have. Besides, who was I to break those rose-colored glasses of his? ‘‘Maybe there won’t be much damage,’’ I offered encouragingly.

‘‘That’s what I’m hoping.’’ A moment later, his tone changed. ‘‘Anyway, what did you want to grill me about today?’’ he asked, and I could hear the smile.

‘‘Look, suppose I meet you over by St. Catherine’s and we grab some dinner? We can talk then.’’

I was certain Peter would expire of malnutrition if I didn’t see to it that he got some nourishment once in a while. But I was prepared for an uphill battle. I figured he’d try to beg off with the excuse that he didn’t want to leave the hospital or maybe that he just plain wasn’t hun

gry, so I was both surprised and pleased when he said,

‘‘Sounds good. What time do you want to make it?’’

I guess keeping a vigil can get pretty lonely.

My taxi pulled up to the hospital’s main building at six on the button. Peter was waiting for me outside.

The weather had turned bitter cold in the last hour or so, and the wind was howling shrilly. I conservatively put the wind-chill factor at minus fifty, at best. It was the kind of night I’d have loved to spend at home in my own apart

ment, just sitting in front of the fireplace with a good book. If I had a fireplace, that is.

My teeth were already beginning to chatter in the brief minute or two since I’d left the warmth of the cab. ‘‘It’s f-freezing out!’’ I told Peter. ‘‘Why didn’t you wait inside?’’

‘‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that fresh air’s healthy for you?’’ he responded, grinning.

He wasn’t even wearing a hat or gloves, and it was an effort to restrain myself from lecturing him about it. But I recognized that the last thing Peter needed at this stage of his life was for me to play big sister again.

‘‘What kind of food would you like?’’ he asked.

‘‘You choose.’’

‘‘There’s this little Italian restaurant I keep passing. I’ve never eaten there, but it looks pretty nice. And it’s close.’’

‘‘C-c-close is good,’’ I said, my teeth clicking together like castanets.

Laughing, Peter took my arm. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh since Ashtabula. ‘‘I can’t believe you! How can you possibly be cold?’’ he demanded. ‘‘Just look at

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you! A coat almost all the way to the ground, a hat pulled way down over your ears and a scarf that’s up past your nose. It’s a wonder you’re getting any oxygen.’’

He laughed again, and it was almost worth freezing my buns off to hear him like that. I said ‘‘almost.’’

He was steering me around the corner. ‘‘It’s just a couple of doors down,’’ he let me know. ‘‘We’ll be there in three minutes.’’

And we were.

We walked into a lively and very noisy bar area; ‘‘happy hour’’ was obviously in full swing here. Adjacent to that room was the dining room, which was already pretty crowded even at such an early dinner hour. Fortunately, there was an empty table toward the back, where the peo

ple were less happy and we’d actually be able to hear what each other had to say.

As soon as our waiter came over, I ordered a glass of red wine to help me defrost. Peter ordered a beer. I could barely stand it: a
cold
beer
on a night like this!

After the waiter hurried away, Peter looked at me with this little smile. ‘‘Go!’’ he said.

Well, I hate to have business interfere with a good meal. But this was definitely not the kind of place where you could put your agenda on hold until coffee and then, over three or four refills, sit around and discuss all the things you were here to discuss. Every table was occupied now, and a waiting line for dinner was already forming in the barroom. So I didn’t waste any time. ‘‘You knew that Mere

dith and Larry Shields—her director—were going together,

didn’t you?’’

‘‘Yeah, sure.’’

‘‘Well, did you also know they’d split up recently?’’

‘‘Didn’t I . . . you mean I didn’t tell you about that?’’

Peter asked, blushing.

‘‘No, you didn’t.’’

‘‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’’ he said, slap

ping his forehead with the palm of his hand. It’s a wonder I can remember my own name.’’

‘‘It’s understandable with all you’re going through,’’ I assured him. ‘‘Tell me what you know about the ar

gument.’’

‘‘Actually, I don’t know
anything
about it. All Mary Ann ever said was that Meredith and Larry had split up and

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that Meredith was in pretty bad shape over it. But Meredith made her swear not to tell anyone
why
they split—not even me. I think she—Meredith, that is—felt guilty about some

thing, but I’m not sure now if Mary Ann actually said that or I just had that impression. Anyway, they got back to

gether again very soon, so I guess whatever it was couldn’t have been that serious. Matter of fact, we all went out to dinner not too long after the fight, and they really seemed crazy about each other.’’

‘‘Maybe that’s why you didn’t say anything to me about it,’’ I offered.

‘‘Nice of you to give me an alibi,’’ Peter said, a sheepish grin on his handsome face. ‘‘Listen, do you mind if we order now? I’d like to go back to the hospital for a little while tonight.’’

We picked up the menus that were sitting in front of us on the table and quickly made our choices. Once we’d passed them on to the waiter, I was unable to contain the urge to make like big sister at least one more time. ‘‘Peter, I hope you won’t mind my saying this,’’ I began, realizing that, chances were, he would. ‘‘But do you think it’s wise spending all your time at the hospital this way? It’s got to be a terrible strain, and there’s really not much you can do there at this point. Going back to work might help take your mind off things.’’

‘‘
Nothing
could take my mind off things,’’ Peter retorted sharply. Then he went on more evenly. ‘‘Look,’’ he said slowly, struggling to convey his feelings, ‘‘I
have
to be there; I just can’t stand being anywhere else. I’m even worried about something happening when I go home to sleep. Or when I take some time to go out and eat—like now. Do you understand what I’m saying?’’

‘‘Of course,’’ I muttered contritely. ‘‘I’ve got a big mouth; so forget what I said, huh? But you
do
have to eat, you know.’’

‘‘And I intend to,’’ Peter promised lightly.

‘‘There’s something else I wanted to ask you about.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Did you by any chance see Mary Ann sometime on Monday?’’

‘‘No.’’ I guess he read the disappointment on my face.

‘‘Why? Is it important?’’

‘‘It might be. But don’t sweat it. There shouldn’t be any

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problem coming up with someone who saw her that day. Or, if not, someone who saw Meredith.’’

‘‘What’s this all about?’’

‘‘You’re aware that the twins were both shot twice, aren’t you? The first time in the torso?’’

‘‘Sure. I thought I told
you
that, but I probably didn’t,’’

Peter admitted ruefully.

‘‘As a matter of fact, it was Sergeant Fielding who told me. But anyway, it occurred to me last night that if we could find out what at least one of them was wearing on Monday and if we could get ahold of the clothing, we’d be able to determine from the position of the bullet hole who was wounded where. And then, of course, we’d know the identity of the woman in the hospital.’’

‘‘You’re terrific, Desiree! You really are,’’ Peter said ad

miringly. ‘‘Why didn’t the police think of that?’’

‘‘Whoa. Don’t give me so much credit. We’re not sure they didn’t. They just may not have been able to get their hands on the clothes for some reason. Anyway, when we finish eating, I want to see what I can find out over in the emergency room. Then, if it comes down to it, I can always check at the theater to see if anyone remembers how Mere

dith was dressed that—’’

‘‘Say, it just came to me! I know what Mary Ann was wearing!’’ Peter broke in excitedly. ‘‘I talked to her on the phone Monday morning, and she mentioned she had on this yellow cashmere sweater. I’d given it to her for her birthday, see—that was on the first—and she wanted me to

know she was wearing it.’’

‘‘Good,’’ I said. ‘‘That is, it’s good if she didn’t change her clothes once she got home that night. But listen, Peter. Do me a favor, huh? Try not to count on something coming

of this,’’ I cautioned. ‘‘Sergeant Fielding’s a good friend of mine, and I know him to be a very competent investigator. So in all likelihood the police have already explored this area. I just don’t want to overlook anything, that’s all.’’