Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (20 page)

‘‘I just remembered,’’ Hyer told me at last, a self-satisfied expression on his face. ‘‘That’s the weekend I was in Ver

mont. I didn’t get back until almost eleven Monday morn

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ing, and I stayed at work a little later than usual that night to catch up. Until a few minutes past seven, I guess it was.’’

‘‘Was anyone with you?’’

‘‘No. Everyone else had left at least a half hour earlier.’’

‘‘Any phone calls? Anything that can help confirm you were there?’’

‘‘No. Not as far as I remember, anyway.’’ Then, impa

tiently: ‘‘But is this necessary? I can’t
really
be a suspect. It wouldn’t make sense for me to suddenly try and kill Mary Ann after all these months.’’ He came close to actu

ally looking me in the eye. ‘‘Use your head. What motive could I possibly have?’’

‘‘Could be you’d just heard she was engaged to another man,’’ I speculated.

‘‘I didn’t have any idea Mary Ann was seeing anyone else until you told me a few minutes ago,’’ he informed me testily. ‘‘Besides, if you think I’ve been pining away for her all this time, you haven’t listened to one damn thing I’ve been telling you.’’

I wasn’t through with my questions yet, so I wanted to get things back on a friendlier basis. ‘‘Look,’’ I responded in the most placating voice I own, ‘‘I’ve been asking every

one who knew the twins the same kind of things I’m asking you. As a matter of fact, between the two of us, I don’t even think Mary Ann was the target; I think she just hap

pened to be there when the killer came to pay Meredith a visit. But I have to cover everything anyway, for my rec—’’

‘‘Okay, okay. But let’s get this over with, huh? I
do
have a date tonight.’’ He checked his watch. ‘‘Ten of eight!

Christ! I’m supposed to be all the way across town by eight!’’

‘‘Why don’t you give the lady a call and tell her you’ll be a few minutes late?’’

‘‘That’s not necessary. She won’t mind waiting for me.’’

I refused to let that get to me. ‘‘Well, we’re almost through here,’’ I informed him pleasantly. ‘‘You were just about to say where you went after work.’’

‘‘Was I?’’ Another of those nasty smiles of his. Then:

‘‘All right. When I left the office, I stopped off for a quick bite at Burger King, or maybe it was McDonald’s or Roy Rogers, for all I know. Anyway, it was one of those fast food joints. And don’t ask me if anyone there would re

member me.’’

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I took his advice. ‘‘Where did you go afterward?’’

‘‘To this bar in town—the Screaming Red Eagle. Burgers

make me thirsty.’’

‘‘What time was that?’’

‘‘Maybe eight. Or even a little before. And I didn’t leave until twelve-thirty, when the place closed. Look, why don’t you talk to Carl? He’s the bartender there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he remembers; the guy’s got a phenomenal memory. Now, if I’m excused . . .’’

With that, Hyer stood up and motioned to the waiter.

‘‘The lady would like the check,’’ he announced when the man hurried over. Then he bent down and said slyly in the vicinity of my ear, ‘‘I
told
you it was your party.’’

When he walked away, I was happy to see I’d been wrong; the liquor
had
had an effect on him. He was defi

nitely listing to one side.

This was one night, I thought smugly, that Roger Hyer would not find it necessary to take the phone off the hook. Chapter 16

I slept until almost ten Saturday morning. Before I even had my coffee, I phoned Peter and left a message on his machine. ‘‘I haven’t talked to you in a few days, and I was anxious to know how everything is,’’ I informed the ma

chine. ‘‘Also, I wanted to give you an update. But don’t expect much,’’ I added quickly. ‘‘Anyway, call me when you get a chance.’’

As soon as I hung up, I plugged in the coffee and fixed myself some breakfast. When I was finished, I typed up the notes I’d made the night before. And then I read over
all
my notes on the case—and I had a fairly hefty folder by now. I was pretty discouraged when I was through. I’d learned a few little things, of course. But nothing that re

ally mattered.

The telephone interrupted my thoughts—or, more accu

rately, my lack of them.

‘‘Desiree? It’s Peter. I just called the apartment, and I got your message.’’ The voice was dull, almost a monotone. There wasn’t even a trace of his recent optimism.

‘‘What’s wrong, Peter?’’ I asked, a little fearful of what he might be about to tell me.

‘‘Nothing. Not really.’’

‘‘But?’’

‘‘But, well, sometimes it just gets to me.’’

‘‘Listen, Peter,’’ I said gently, ‘‘the doctors told you—’’

‘‘Yeah, I know what the doctors
told
me. But there doesn’t seem to be any change at all.’’

‘‘Well, it’s—’’ I began.

‘‘You know what the worst of it is, though?’’ he went on, caught up in his own thoughts. ‘‘Not knowing how to talk to her.’’

‘‘What do you—’’

He wasn’t even listening. ‘‘The thing is,’’ he said misera

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bly, ‘‘I’m hoping that on some level she can hear me. But, as much as I don’t want to think about it, I’ve got to accept the possibility that the woman I’m talking to could be Mer

edith.’’ His voice grew sharper now, more intense, honed by his pain and frustration. ‘‘That even restricts what I can say to her, don’t you see? It’s not even right to tell her I love her. So most of the time I just sit there holding her hand and telling her that she has to get better, that every

one’s praying for her.’’ He choked up before confiding softly, ‘‘But if it’s Mary Ann, that’s not what she wants to hear.’’ A pause. ‘‘And, God knows, it isn’t what I want to say to her.’’

Well, what could
I
say to Peter? Fortunately, I didn’t get the chance to come up with something entirely meaningless and inappropriate.

‘‘I’m acting like a dumb, self-pitying wimp this morning, aren’t I?’’ he put in with an embarrassed little laugh. ‘‘And you called
me
in the first place, didn’t you? What did you want to tell me?’’

Now I was the one who was embarrassed. ‘‘I just wanted

to check in with you, that’s all. I’m afraid I don’t have a whole lot to report, though. I wish I did. Anyway, here’s what’s been happening. . . .’’

I gave him a brief synopsis of what had transpired since our last talk. But it all sounded so flimsy, so
nothing
to my own ears that I just couldn’t leave things like that. ‘‘I know there still isn’t anything we can hang our hats on,’’ I con

ceded, ‘‘but don’t worry. I promise you that before too much longer you’ll know for sure whether the girl in St. Catherine’s is Mary Ann.’’

‘‘Thanks, Desiree,’’ he murmured. And, a moment later,

‘‘Thanks,’’ he said again. ‘‘Uh, the police don’t have any idea yet who was responsible, do they?’’

‘‘No, not yet. Not as far as I know. But whoever it was won’t be getting away with it. You have my word on that, too.’’

I wasn’t aware until several minutes after the phone call was over that I’d finally admitted to myself—and out loud—that I was actively hunting for the killer. And, in spite of our agreement to the contrary, even Peter didn’t seem surprised.

Maybe, like everyone else, he knew from the beginning that it just wasn’t possible to handle things any other way.

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*

*

*

Well, that bit of bravado I’d displayed on the phone had

resulted in my putting even more pressure on myself. I’d actually
promised
to have some answers soon. Wishing passionately that I’d ripped my tongue out be

fore Peter’s call, I went back over my notes again. And again. But I still wasn’t able to make a whole lot out of them. Either there wasn’t anything important in there—or I didn’t
recognize
that there was anything important in there, which was a lot worse.

And just how frustrated was I by the end of my second reread? So frustrated that I actually decided to engage in a little physical activity to unload some of my angst. And since I consider even a brisk walk a little too exotic for me, I settled on cleaning my apartment. (At least I didn’t have to go outside to do
that
.)

Of course, with Charmaine, my phantom cleaning

woman, a no-show again that Saturday, there wasn’t a soul to stand in the way of my ambition. (And in case you’re wondering why I don’t just fire her, it’s because whenever Charmaine
does
deign to come to work, I’m always so grateful I forget that I ever made up my mind to get rid of her.) Anyway, that day I was actually glad to stand in for her.

I dragged half a dozen assorted cleansers out of the cabi

net, after which I got out the broom, the mop, the squee

gee, the brushes, the rags and my new vacuum with its four separate—and totally useless—attachments. Then, com

pletely ignoring the fact that I’d turned the apartment in

side out the week before, I tore through the place like a dynamo—scrubbing and polishing and dusting and sweep

ing and mopping and vacuuming. You wouldn’t believe how enthusiastically I tackled all those nasty little jobs I usually try not to even think about.

When I was through, I’d surpassed even the previous week’s efforts, and I had this tremendous sense of accom

plishment. The apartment looked so . . . so
clean
. On the downside, though, I could barely make it over to the sofa to sit down. I had a seven o’clock appointment for dinner and a movie with my neighbor, Barbara Gleason, but that was over three hours away. And I wasn’t
so
decrepit that I wouldn’t bounce back after I had a couple of minutes to catch my breath. Come to think of it, maybe I’d even throw

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a few things in the washing machine downstairs later. In the meantime, I’d just sit here and relax for a little while. . . . The doorbell prodded me into consciousness. I looked around. The room was dark now. For a minute or so, I was

fogbound; then I remembered my sudden, draining spurt of domesticity. Switching on the lamp next to the sofa, I went to the door. I had to stand on tiptoe to see out of the peephole. And what I saw was Barbara Gleason all bundled up in her coat, her hand on the buzzer, a very agitated expression on her long, thin face.

‘‘You really had me worried!’’ she scolded when I let her in. ‘‘I’ve been ringing and ringing. I thought you might be dead or something.’’ She took in my attire—this ugly print
thing
that’s at least a hundred years old and that I hate for anyone to see me in even when I’m just going out to the incinerator. ‘‘You don’t plan on wearing
that
tonight!’’ she said, which was very perceptive of her.

‘‘Of course not,’’ I told her indignantly. ‘‘What time is it, anyway?’’

‘‘Five of.’’

‘‘Five of what?’’

‘‘Seven. Five of
seven
.’’

I couldn’t believe it! ‘‘God! I’m sorry! I fell asleep on the sofa. I must have slept for hours!’’

‘‘Well, we can have dinner and make the late show—it goes on at ten-thirty. That is, if you don’t spend forever getting dressed.’’

‘‘Listen, would it be more convenient for you if we put off the movie till tomorrow night?’’ I asked hopefully, not exactly loving the idea of going out at that point.

‘‘I told this woman I work with that I couldn’t have din

ner with
her
tonight because I’d already made plans with
you
.’’

What could I say?

Barbara went back to her own apartment, and I franti

cally went about getting ready. It was another fast shower, another slapdash makeup job, and another intense—but, of

necessity, brief—battle with my hair. I was at Barbara’s door in less than an hour.

‘‘You look like a raccoon,’’ were her first words when she came out in the hall to join me. ‘‘Better fix your eye makeup in the cab,’’ she told me in that decisive way she has. (Barbara doesn’t really talk to you—she
mandates
.

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Which I always put down to an occupational hazard; she teaches third grade.)

We went to a seafood restaurant in midtown, not far from the movie theater. I was really primed for the shrimp scampi, but Barbara was aghast. ‘‘For God’s sake! Do you have any idea how much cholesterol there is in scampi?