Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (19 page)

‘‘No,
I’m
sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?’’

‘‘That’s okay. I had to get up early today anyway,’’ she said graciously.

I told her who I was and why I was so anxious to meet with her. When I was through, she asked groggily, ‘‘Uh, just who did you say it was that got shot?’’

‘‘Your
friend,
Meredith Foster, along with her twin sis

ter.’’ I’m afraid my tone was a little sharp, but, after all, we were talking life and death here.

‘‘Meredith Foster?’’

That’s when it finally dawned on me, quick study that I am. ‘‘This
is
Helen Ward, isn’t it?’’

‘‘No. It’s her roommate.’’

I soon learned that Ward was on location shooting a movie in the middle of the jungle somewhere and that there was absolutely no way I could get in touch with her. (Con

sidering how my luck was running, it was probably the first job she’d had in months, too.) She’d already been gone five weeks, and, according to the roommate, my guess was as good as any as to when she’d be back. ‘‘To tell you the

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truth,’’ the girl said, ‘‘I thought she’d be back by
now
.’’

After which she confided cattily, ‘‘She doesn’t have much of a part.’’

‘‘Well, if you should happen to hear from her, please ask her to call me—any time of the day or night.’’ I provided both my home and office numbers, then added, ‘‘You won’t

forget, will you? It’s very,
very
important.’’

‘‘Oh, I won’t forget,’’ she replied pleasantly. ‘‘I wrote down the numbers in Helen’s message book. But don’t count on her calling me from over there. She’s been gone all this time, and she hasn’t yet.’’

‘‘Well, when she comes home, then, have her get in touch

with me right away. Will you do that?’’

‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘It’s really
vital
.’’ (As you’ve no doubt already gathered, I have this tendency to resort to overkill to make a point.)

‘‘And thanks very much, Ms. . . . ?’’

‘‘Shakira. Just Shakira. You know, like Madonna. And Kenny G.’’

Kenny
G.?

The Plaza Hotel’s venerable Oak Room, with its dark wood paneling and lovely subdued murals, its comfortable leather armchairs and worn oak plank floors, has a kind of faded and genteel charm you won’t find in any other room in New York. Or anywhere else I’ve ever been to, for that matter. I had to admit I approved of Roger Hyer’s choice. Just from our phone conversation, I swear I could have picked Hyer out of the crowd. But the navy suit with the navy and red polka dot tie
did
clinch things. A dapper, dark-haired man in his late thirties, he was staring absently at the drink in his hand when I walked over to his table.

‘‘You’re—’’

‘‘Roger Hyer,’’ he finished for me. ‘‘And you must be Desiree.’’ Then he flashed these large, even teeth that—

particularly against his George Hamilton suntan—were so startlingly white I practically had to blink.

Getting to his feet, he came around to hold out my chair

(with what I thought was an exaggerated politeness), and I realized he was only an inch or two taller than I was in my heels. Which would put him at five-six or maybe five-seven, at most. But he was well built, with a slender yet substantial

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CAN
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YOUR
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frame that displayed his expensively cut suit to good advantage.

The waiter appeared at our table the instant we were both seated. ‘‘You’ll have to drink fast to catch up with me,’’ Hyer told me. ‘‘My second,’’ he added, indicating the empty glass in front of him.

I asked for a Perrier with a twist of lime, and Hyer or

dered another Chivas—neat. As soon as were alone again, he said, ‘‘You wouldn’t believe me when I told you I didn’t know anything that could help you.’’ His lips curved in a faint, lopsided smile. ‘‘But it’s your party. Go ahead. What did you want to ask me?’’ There was something really con

temptuous about that smile. Also, I saw now that Eric Fos

ter was absolutely right: The man didn’t look you in the eye when he talked to you.

But I had no intention of letting Hyer’s manner unnerve me. ‘‘You and Mary Ann Foster were engaged for about six months, I hear.’’

‘‘That’s right. And I’m sure you also heard we split up months ago—back in August.’’

‘‘Yes, I did. But everyone’s given me a different reason for the breakup,’’ I lied.

‘‘Then let me enlighten you as to the
real
reason Miz Foster called it off,’’ Hyer snapped. ‘‘It’s because she was still a child.’’

I should have known this guy would justify his behavior.

‘‘In what way?’’

It was at this moment that our drinks arrived, and as soon as the waiter walked away, Hyer took a few deep swallows. Then, looking in my general direction, he said bitterly, ‘‘Mary Ann had herself a fit because she found out that I’d been married—never mind that it was years before I even met her!’’

‘‘Married
twice
. And hadn’t told her,’’ I reminded him.

‘‘All right,
twice,
’’ he conceded, glowering at me.

‘‘Where’d you hear about it, anyway, her stuffed-shirt brother? Never mind. Listen, if you can suspend your obvi

ous damn bias for a minute, it’s possible you’ll even under

stand
why
I didn’t tell her.’’

‘‘You’re right; I apologize. I had no business prejudging you,’’ I admitted.

Hyer nodded. ‘‘The fact is,’’ he continued, ‘‘when Mary Ann and I first met, there wasn’t any reason to bring up

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anything like that; I had no idea it would ever get serious between us. And later, when things
did
get serious, it didn’t make any sense to ruin things by going into ancient history.

‘‘I was married the first time when I was only eighteen years old. Did anyone bother telling you
that
? Eighteen! A baby! We were divorced two years later. The second time was when I was twenty-seven; that lasted less than a year. There were no children from either marriage, so how could it possibly affect my relationship with Mary Ann?’’

Hyer stopped talking just long enough to take another healthy swallow of the Chivas. Then he resumed his ratio

nalization. ‘‘Well, once we were engaged, I figured, why go into it now? What does it have to do with today, with us—

Mary Ann and me? So I put it behind me. I didn’t think there was much chance she’d ever find out. But if and when she did, there’d be plenty of time for explanations then.’’

Suddenly there was something vulnerable in Hyer’s face, and the hand reaching for the scotch wasn’t any too steady now. Draining the rest of the drink in one large gulp, he signaled for a refill before saying softly, ‘‘It seems, though, that I underestimated the spitefulness of some people. And I
overestimated
my fianceé.’’

I knew it wouldn’t help to point out anything about hon

esty and trust. Besides, I didn’t want to rub it in. I’m ashamed to admit this, but, much to my own annoyance—

and notwithstanding my less than terrific opinion of the man—I found myself feeling a little sorry for Hyer right then. (Of course, I didn’t know if he was suffering because he’d lost the woman he loved or because he was just a guy who hated losing.) Anyway, I moved on. ‘‘Someone told Mary Ann about your ex-wives out of
spite
?’’ I asked.

‘‘Probably. I’ve made a few enemies in my life.’’

‘‘Do you know who it was?’’

‘‘No. I wish I did,’’ he said in this low quiet voice that made it sound pretty ominous. Even through the tan, I could see the dark flush that was beginning to spread from his neck to his forehead. ‘‘But whoever it was made sure she heard about it as soon as she set foot in the States.’’

‘‘Did you tell her why you hadn’t said anything to her before?’’

‘‘Put it this way: I tried to. But she let me have it with both barrels. Threw a two-and-a-half-carat ring in my face!

No matter what I said, all
she’d
say was that I lied to her.

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Which is a lie in itself. I never
lied
about having been mar

ried; I just didn’t volunteer the information.’’ He picked up his drink and rolled the glass around in his hands. ‘‘Mary Ann,’’ he muttered, ‘‘was hardly the most understanding woman in the world.
Or
the most forgiving.’’

‘‘Was that the last time you saw her—when she threw the ring at you?’’

‘‘More or less.’’

‘‘Which means?’’

‘‘Well, I called her half a dozen times after that, and she kept hanging up on me. But I still felt I had to give it one last try. So early one morning I drove into New York and parked in front of her building, waiting for her to come out. I sat there for over two hours until she finally showed. But the minute she spotted me, she jumped into a cab and took off.’’ It was time for another swig of the scotch. Then Hyer said, ‘‘I ask you, is that any way for a grown woman to act?’’

I refrained from telling him no, that that was the action of a naive young girl who expected the man she was plan

ning to marry to play it straight with her.

‘‘Do you know she wouldn’t even move in with me when

she came to the States?’’ Hyer demanded, working up steam. ‘‘Insisted on living in New York with her sister until we got married. Some crap about not wanting people to talk. Incredible, isn’t it, in this day and age! She was such a damn little prig she wouldn’t even make love with the lights on, for crying out loud! To tell the truth, when I think about it now, I’m wondering what I ever saw in an immature little kid like that.’’

‘‘The time you drove into the city to talk to her—when was that?’’

‘‘The end of August.’’

‘‘I gather you were pretty upset when she broke it off.’’

‘‘I won’t deny it. I was crazy about her, and I took it hard—until I realized how infantile she was. And once I realized that . . . well, I haven’t exactly been lonesome for company since then. I found out there are plenty of women out there who are a little more grown-up. And, I might add, a
lot
more giving.’’ If there’d been any question as to what Hyer meant by that, his smarmy grin made it clear. I must be just pure, unadulterated mush, I decided, to have allowed myself to feel any sympathy at all for a sleaze

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like this. I tried to keep my aversion to the man from creep

ing into my voice. ‘‘When did you learn that Mary Ann had gotten engaged again?’’

There was total silence. Then Hyer, looking stunned, said quietly, ‘‘She got engaged again?’’ (Was it my imagination, or did his tan actually fade for a moment or two there?) I nodded.

‘‘Didn’t take her very long, did it? Who’s the lucky guy?’’

he asked sardonically, at the same time signaling the waiter for still another refill.

‘‘A casting director for an advertising agency here in New York.’’

‘‘When were they engaged?’’

‘‘Just a few weeks before she was shot. You didn’t know

about it?’’

‘‘Would I be asking if I did?’’

‘‘Look, just for my records, I’d appreciate your telling me where you were the night of the murder.’’

‘‘I don’t have to answer that, you know; you’re not the police.’’ But Hyer’s tone was a lot less argumentative than his words would indicate. I guess the news (assuming it
was
news) had knocked a little of the attitude out of him.

‘‘That’s true,’’ I agreed. ‘‘But the police will be con

tacting you any day now to ask you the same question. And if
I’m
satisfied you—’’

‘‘Don’t start
that
again,’’ he groused, picking up his fifth glass of scotch—or was it his sixth?—which had just now been unobtrusively placed in front of him. I was amazed at how unaffected he seemed to be by the alcohol he’d been consuming in such impressive quantities. Even his speech was clear. ‘‘What night was that, anyway?’’ he was asking.

‘‘Monday. February tenth.’’

He screwed up his face and, pressing his left palm against his temple, sat there staring intently into the drink he was holding in his right hand. It was as though he were gazing into a crystal ball for the answer.

Oh,
come
on,
I wanted to say—but didn’t.
You
knew
I
was
going
to
ask
you
this,
and
you
know
very
well
where
you
were
that
night
.