Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (11 page)

‘‘Yeah, I know. I was just asking one of the floor nurses today how she is,’’ Carmen responded, her tone softening.

‘‘I understand they were very pretty, too, although there was no way you could tell. Not after what that son of a bitch—whoever he is—did to those faces.’’

‘‘That’s why it’s so important to find out what they were wearing. Because of what was done to them, no one knows

which twin survived and which one died. One of those girls was my client’s fianceé. And you can’t even imagine what he’s going through.’’

‘‘Poor man. That’s rough, really rough,’’ she murmured, shaking her head sympathetically.

‘‘But we’re almost certain the one twin—Mary Ann—

had on a yellow cashmere sweater.’’

Carmen caught on fast. ‘‘I see. You want to know where

the woman in the yellow sweater was wounded, is that it?’’

Making this little clucking sound, she said quietly, ‘‘I wish I could help you. Honest.’’ Then, obviously thinking—or hoping—I was finished with my questions, she lifted one cheek off the chair.

‘‘Listen Carmen, I’d really appreciate the names of any of the other emergency personnel who might have worked on the twins that night.’’

‘‘It won’t do you any good, kiddo. That sergeant what’s

’is-name already quizzed everyone in E.R. who was on duty then, even those who didn’t go near those women. Believe me, if they knew anything, they would have told him.’’

‘‘I realize that. But I’d feel better if I could speak to them myself. I just think I owe it to my client.’’

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‘‘I guess I can understand that. All right. Lemme see, the other R.N. was Kirsten Anderssen. She’s off tonight, and I haven’t got time to look up her phone number right this minute; I’ve really gotta get back to work. But I
will
get it for you,’’ she promised, lifting that same cheek off the chair again.

‘‘And the doctor?’’

‘‘There were two doctors taking care of them, but I can’t remember for sure who they were. I’ll find out, though. Tell you what. You leave me your number, and I’ll ask the three of them to get in touch with you. Don’t worry; I’ll explain how important it is.’’ This time, Carmen lifted both cheeks.

I stood up, too. ‘‘Let me give you a few of my cards,’’ I told her. Propping myself against the wall, I started fishing around for my wallet in the overstuffed, suitcase-sized ac

cessory I call a handbag.

Apparently Carmen wasn’t too optimistic about my pros

pects for any immediate success. ‘‘Just drop them off at the desk for me,’’ she instructed. ‘‘I gotta take off.’’ Before I could say anything, she was walking briskly away.

The second she disappeared around the corner, I came up with the wallet.

‘‘Wait!’’ I called out, running after her while I attempted to extricate some of my business cards. ‘‘You didn’t even give me a chance to thank you,’’ I said, catching up with her and handing her five or six cards. ‘‘You’ve been great, and I really appreciate all your help.’’

‘‘That’s okay; no problem,’’ Carmen assured me, shoving

the cards in her pocket. ‘‘I just wish I’d been able to tell you more. Anyway, I hope you catch the son of a bitch.’’

She began moving away again, and then she stopped.

‘‘Oh, I just remembered,’’ she said, spinning around, a mis

chievous grin on her face. ‘‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’’ The grin widened. ‘‘And listen,’’ she cautioned, ‘‘don’t forget your flowers.’’

Chapter 8

In a way, I was relieved. It’s true that I hadn’t really learned anything at St. Catherine’s. But that also meant I hadn’t learned anything
bad
.

I went to bed Friday night grateful that I wouldn’t have to carry any heartbreaking news to Peter—at least, not yet. The next morning—Saturday—I was at it again.

Just before ten, I called the Hyatt. There was no answer in Eric Foster’s room, and I didn’t want to leave a message. I’d try him later.

I took a look at the names I’d gotten from Peter. The name at the top of the list was Lydia Brodsky. Her number was in the phone book, and, fortunately, she was home. I explained who I was and asked when it would be possible to talk to her. I figured she’d probably put me off until Monday.

‘‘Where are you calling from?’’ she wanted to know.

‘‘My apartment—on East Eighty-second Street.’’

‘‘Let’s see,’’ she mused, ‘‘I don’t have any appointments until later this afternoon, but there’s this errand I’ve
got
to run up on East Eighty-sixth. That’s right near you, though, isn’t it? All right,’’ she said slowly, still turning things over in her mind, ‘‘it’ll take me a couple of hours to throw on some clothes, go up to Eighty-sixth Street, and then do what I have to do. But I should be able to get over to Eighty-second by twelve-thirty. No,’’ she concluded firmly.

‘‘Make that one. Would that be okay for you?’’

‘‘Perfect.’’ I gave her the address and we hung up. If I didn’t dawdle too much, there would be time to straighten up the apartment for a few minutes, shower, dress, and then run out and shop for Ellen’s dinner tomor

row night.

I managed to fit everything in, getting back from D’Agos

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tino’s around quarter of one, five minutes before Lydia Brodsky showed up.

When I opened the door, I got the weirdest feeling. It was almost like looking in the mirror. The woman standing there was close to my own age—which, of course, I have no intention of letting you in on. And she was as short as I am. And as wide. She was dressed in a full, floor-sweeping coat (even longer than mine), a scarf that was pulled up to her nose, and a hat that came down over her ears. The similarities, however, stopped when she took off the coat.

Lydia Brodsky had on yellow sweatpants with a matching

top, which is something I absolutely forbid myself to do—

wear pants, I mean. From the rear—and in that yellow outfit—she bore a strong resemblance to the back end of a taxi. Then, when she removed the hat, I noted that her hair was much too short for her very full face and much too blond to go
that
long without a touch-up. You couldn’t even compare this woman’s hair with my own gloriously hennaed head.

Nevertheless, her physique was enough like mine to make me swear to myself I’d go on a diet as of Monday. But I was lying, and I knew it. It’s tough to diet when eating is almost like a religion to you; but it’s damned near impossible if you happen to be crazy about cooking, too. Besides, my one or two successful attempts at losing weight had not altered my life in any meaningful way. What I’m trying to say is, Prince Charming didn’t appear and carry me off into the sunset somewhere. And if he wasn’t going to do any carrying, why bother staying thin?

Lydia waddled over to the sofa (I guess we both did a little waddling) and sat down. She passed on my offer of coffee, tea, or soda and immediately began speaking tear

fully about the twins. ‘‘Mary Ann and I were supposed to get together Monday night. Did Peter tell you that? If only I hadn’t gotten sick, Mary Ann, at least, would still be alive.’’

‘‘She still
may
be,’’ I reminded her.

‘‘Yes, you’re right,’’ she mumbled, a little disconcerted.

‘‘I meant that she wouldn’t have been shot. I hear . . . I hear they were both horribly mutilated.’’ With that, the tears started trickling down her cheeks, and she reached

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into her shirt pocket. Coming up empty, she began rum

maging around in her spacious and overpacked handbag. I knew the feeling. I got up and went into the bathroom, returning with a large box of tissues. She took a few, smil

ing gratefully. ‘‘Thanks,’’ she said, wiping her cheeks and returning the box to me. ‘‘I can never find anything in this damned bag when I need it.’’

I put the tissue box on the cocktail table in front of her. I had a very strong premonition that Lydia would be going to it again and again before our little talk was over.

‘‘You weren’t feeling well Monday; that’s why you had to cancel your plans with Mary Ann?’’ I put it like a ques

tion to get her started again.

‘‘Yes. We were supposed to go out to eat and then take in a movie. But when I woke up that morning, I knew I was coming down with
something
. I kept hoping until the last minute that I’d start feeling better and be able to make it, but I just kept on getting worse. At seven, I finally threw in the towel and gave her a call at the shop. You know, by the time I got home that night I had a temperature of a hundred and two. Oh, I just
wish
she’d listened to me!’’

‘‘About what?’’

‘‘Well, since I couldn’t keep our date, I suggested to Mary Ann that she call Peter; I said maybe she could still get together with him. I felt really bad about waiting so long to cancel.’’

‘‘She didn’t want to call?’’

‘‘She told me Peter was meeting this old college friend of his for dinner and that it was probably too late to get in touch with him. I said that it wouldn’t hurt to try, and she said that maybe I was right. But two seconds later, she changed her mind. She told me that, on second thought, she was kind of tired, and besides, she could use the time to take care of bills and things. I think maybe she also figured that Peter and his friend might have some catching up to do, although he
had
invited her to join them—before he knew she’d made plans with me, that is. But Mary Ann was . . . is . . . oh, I don’t know . . . she’s like that. Really thoughtful.’’

Lydia reached for the tissues again. Scooping up a hand

ful, she dabbed at her eyes, brushed the newest accumula

tion of tears from her cheeks, and then noisily blew her nose a few times. ‘‘Damn!’’ she said when she was through.

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‘‘If only she’d called Peter. If only she’d called
someone
!

Why’d I have to pick
that
night to come down with the flu, anyway? I’m usually healthy as a horse.’’ She forced a smile and helped herself to another handful of tissues.

‘‘Listen, did you mention to anyone else that you were going out with Mary Ann Monday night?’’

‘‘Not that I can recall. . . . No. As a matter of fact, I’m sure that I didn’t.’’

‘‘And Mary Ann—would you know if
she
said anything to anyone besides Peter?’’

‘‘I wouldn’t have any idea about that,’’ Lydia answered regretfully.

‘‘How did you happen to meet the twins in the first place?’’ I asked then.

‘‘Didn’t Peter tell you? They bought their condo through

me. We got to be really good friends, too. There’s a little difference in age, of course,’’ she quickly put in, sounding a bit defensive, ‘‘but it didn’t matter. I seem to have more in common with younger women.’’

‘‘Ohhh, you were their real estate agent,’’ I concluded with that remarkably keen mind of mine. ‘‘I understand it’s quite a place, that apartment of theirs.’’

Lydia nodded her agreement. ‘‘I wish
I
could afford it.’’

‘‘Just how much was it, anyway?’’

‘‘Oh, I don’t think I should—’’

‘‘Please,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m not asking to be nosy. It could be important.’’

She thought it over for a couple of seconds. ‘‘All right,’’

she conceded, ‘‘it was one and a half.’’

‘‘Million?’’
Any number with six zeros after it really throws me.

‘‘Million,’’ an amused Lydia echoed.

‘‘Who actually purchased the apartment—Mary Ann or

Meredith?’’

‘‘They both did; it was in both names. Although Mere

dith was the one who took most of the initiative when it came to the decision making.’’

‘‘The twins were quite different, I’m told.’’

‘‘Definitely. Mary Ann was more . . . laid back, I guess you’d say. While Meredith was a take-charge kind of per

son. Maybe it was because she was a month older.’’

I did a sort of double-take, which must have been the kind of response Lydia was after, because then she grinned

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and said, ‘‘They were born four minutes apart, you know. Even though they both celebrated their birthday on Febru

ary 1, Meredith was actually born on January 31—just be

fore midnight. And then Mary Ann came along right
after
midnight. Meredith used to refer to Mary Ann as her kid sister.’’