Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (26 page)

‘‘What do they think her chances are of regaining her memory—or haven’t they said?’’ I asked gently.

‘‘Dr. Baker, her neurologist, says that with an injury like hers they can’t be sure. It could happen anytime now, or . . .’’

A couple of seconds passed before he was able to finish the thought. ‘‘Or she may never remember.’’ There was another pause, and then Peter’s mood picked up again.

‘‘But let’s get to some more of the good stuff,’’ he or

dered cheerfully. ‘‘Mary Ann’s even talking now! It isn’t easy for her, all wired up like that—and you can barely understand her—but she manages it. Yesterday, she asked what happened to her, and the doctors told her she was in an accident. And then she asked what her name was. They told her it was Foster. She just accepted that; she didn’t ask about her first name or anything. A while later, she wanted to know who I was. The doctors had made me promise that if she asked me, I’d say I was just a good friend. So that’s what I did. But it almost killed me.’’

‘‘I know it did. But—for the time being, anyway—I think

you’re going to have to leave it at that.’’

‘‘I guess so,’’ Peter conceded grudgingly. In an instant, though, his voice became animated again. ‘‘But listen, this afternoon she took some nourishment through a straw for the first time. How’s that for progress?’’

And on that happy note, we went into the kitchen for our lasagna.

It wasn’t until we were almost finished with dinner that Peter said excitedly, ‘‘Hey, I didn’t tell you, did I? The

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doctors were discussing plastic surgery this morning like it’s actually for real, like they expect Mary Ann to be around for it! It would be a series of operations—three or four, I think. But of course they’ll have to wait awhile, until she’s stronger and her jaw heals a little.’’

‘‘That’s a very positive sign,’’ I told him, marveling at how much things had changed in these last forty-eight hours.

Well, no matter which twin was lying there in St. Cather

ine’s and no matter how everything eventually worked out, this had to be better for Peter than all of those long, agoniz

ing weeks in limbo.

But then I reminded myself that—in spite of what he professed—Peter was
still
in limbo, that he’d
be
in limbo until the question of identity was truly resolved. And, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I had to face the realization that might never happen. Chapter 22

Peter left at a little after midnight—with the extra pan of lasagna I pressed on him.

About five minutes after the door closed, I was ready to flog myself. How could I even consider the
possibility
of never sorting out the identities of the victims? Peter was depending on me, and I had to come through for him—or die trying.

So on Friday I revved myself up to pursue another angle

of the case: I was going to find out the truth about that short-lived rift between Meredith and Larry Shields. I began with Tara Wilde, the
Love
and
Stuff
cast member I was convinced represented my best chance of getting the facts. In other words, the person it would be easiest to manipulate.

I called her from my apartment at six-thirty. No answer. And, surprisingly for an actress, no answering machine, ei

ther. I tried again twenty minutes later. Still no answer. Maybe she had a date. But then again, maybe she just hadn’t come home from rehearsal yet. At seven-fifteen, I gave it what I’d determined would be my final try. (I hadn’t eaten since a really puny lunch at twelve, and my stomach would not be denied much longer.) This time, Tara picked up on the second ring.

The girl’s tone became wary as soon as I mentioned my name—which she recognized instantly. (That’s the one ad

vantage of being a Desiree Shapiro: It’s way up there on the memorability scale.) Of course, considering our last en

counter, I wasn’t exactly stunned by the unenthusiastic re

ception I got.

‘‘Listen,’’ I told her—making sure all my natural warmth

and sincerity came through in my voice—"there’s this one small point I’d like to check out with you. I’m in your neighborhood now, and I thought, if you haven’t eaten yet,

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maybe we could grab a bite together while we talked.’’

(Since Tara lived in the west sixties, I wasn’t anywhere
near
her neighborhood. But I wanted the invitation to sound casual so she’d drop her guard a little.)

Evidently I didn’t come off as likable as I’d hoped, be

cause she was still leery of meeting with me. ‘‘I told you all I know when you questioned me at the theater,’’ she said.

‘‘Oh, I’m sure you did. But this just cropped up, and I was hoping you could shed some light on it. It won’t take long; I promise. I’m on West Sixty-seventh now with a cli

ent, and I should be through here around eight. And then I have another appointment a few blocks away at tenfifteen, which gives me a couple of hours to kill. You’d be doing me a real favor if you joined me for dinner. Please. I’m absolutely starved, and I hate to eat alone.’’
That
part, at least, was true.

Tara hesitated, weighing the offer carefully, before re

sponding with what I could tell were the first words of a reluctant turn-down. ‘‘Gee, I’m not . . .’’

Quickly I played my trump card. ‘‘We can go to any restaurant you like,’’ I told her. (Taking into account what novice actresses earn, there was a good possibility that for a really special meal, she might even be willing to put up with
me
.)

‘‘Well . . . there’s this wonderful seafood restaurant I heard about. But it
is
kind of expensive.’’

We arranged to meet at the restaurant at ten after eight. Which, I calculated, should allow me to get into my coat, go downstairs, engage in some ugly battles with my neigh

bors over the few available taxis (it was a Friday night, remember?) and—by eventually outwitting someone who

lacked my street smarts—make it over to the West Side in time.

I got to the Sea Scape at quarter after eight. Tara was standing in front of the place shivering, her slim frame hud

dled in a coat about two sizes larger than she was, her cheeks and nose whipped to a bright pink by the strong end-of-February wind.

‘‘Why didn’t you wait inside?’’ I asked.

‘‘You didn’t mention inside, and I was worried you might

not think to look.’’

Hey,
this
just
might
be
easier
than
I
thought!

MURDER
CAN
RUIN
YOUR
LOOKS

157

Over our crabmeat cocktail, I was careful to keep the conversation away from the investigation. How was the show going? I asked. Tara said fine but that the opening had to be postponed until the end of March to give Lucille Collins a chance to work into her new role. And how was
her
part coming along? Pretty good, although she only had a few lines, so how bad could she mess up? Then I asked what the play was about. Food must have had a relaxing effect on the girl, because she cheerfully related the plot. As soon as the waiter removed our naked dishes, Tara wanted to know how I came to be a P.I. And I undoubtedly

told her more than she ever hoped to hear.

By the time we were having our scampi (yes, Barbara,
scampi
!), we were chatting away like old friends. Then, as I was spearing my third huge, succulent shrimp, I finally broached the case. ‘‘The reason I wanted to talk to you,’’

I said, ‘‘is that I heard from another cast member re

cently—and I don’t know how true it is—that Meredith was

very depressed the week she died.

Tara’s huge eyes opened wide, and she arrested her fork

in midair. ‘‘Who told you that?’’

‘‘I’m afraid I can’t say; it was told to me in confidence.’’

‘‘Well, I didn’t notice anything,’’ she assured me before lustily attacking her food again. ‘‘Have you asked Larry about it?’’

That was the opening I wanted.

‘‘No, not yet. I was hoping I might not have to. I hate bugging him; this thing’s hit him really hard.’’

‘‘Don’t I know it!’’

‘‘He was just crazy about her, wasn’t he? I guess he had to be to take her back after what she pulled on him.’’

‘‘You
know
about that?’’ Tara asked disbelievingly.

‘‘Meredith confided in a friend of hers who clued me in on the whole story.’’ I shook my head slowly from side to side. ‘‘It was really a terrible thing she did.’’

‘‘Terrible,’’ Tara agreed, looking up and nodding for a split second before she began to sop up the butter sauce with her generously buttered roll.

‘‘It was very understanding of him to forgive her, don’t you think?’’

‘‘Larry’s like that.’’

I kept plugging away. ‘‘I guess that’s what makes what she did all the more . . .’’ I groped for the word Meredith

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herself had used in unburdening herself to Charles Springer. Then I nailed it. ‘‘Unforgivable,’’ I finished.

‘‘That’s the way we all feel. Everyone in the cast.’’

So
the
whole
cast
was
aware
of
Meredith’s
transgression!

‘‘How did you find out about it, anyway?’’ I asked.
Surely
now
I’d
learn
something,
too
.

‘‘Well, the day after Meredith told him—at least, I think it was the day after—they were rehashing the whole thing at the theater, in Larry’s office. Everyone else had already left, so I guess they weren’t worried somebody would hear them. But Midge—you remember her, tall redhead?—she forgot her shopping bag. She bought a beautiful beige tweed skirt at Bolton’s lunchtime; it was a real buy, too—

$59.95. Anyway, she remembered about the skirt when she was just a couple of blocks away from the theater, so she came back for it. Only Larry and Meredith didn’t hear her come in. Midge wasn’t eavesdropping, honestly, but they weren’t exactly whispering. Of course, she knew they’d be mortified if they thought she overheard anything, so she just stood there in the dressing room, not even moving, until Meredith left and Larry went into the men’s room. Then she got out of there fast!’’

‘‘And Midge went and repeated the story to the entire company?’’

Tara immediately sprang to the other actress’s defense—

immediately after she finished buttering her fourth roll, that is. (I’d gladly sell my soul for that kid’s metabolism!) ‘‘Oh, no!’’ she protested. ‘‘Midge only told Diane and me. She felt as though she had to tell
someone,
and she knew we’d never breathe a word to anyone else.’’ (
Diane?
I had a vague recollection of a short, plump girl; some kind of pro

duction assistant, I thought.)

‘‘But then Carol found out,’’ Tara continued (as I tried, without any success at all, to recall who Carol was). ‘‘I really don’t know how, either; maybe she heard the three of us talking. And after that . . .’’ She broke off and shrugged, spreading her arms, her palms turned upwards. The gesture made it plain she considered this Carol solely to blame for the exposure of Meredith and Larry’s secret.

‘‘Midge must have been really shocked—I mean, hearing

Meredith admit a thing like that.’’

‘‘She was floored.’’

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CAN
RUIN
YOUR
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‘‘I guess Larry was pretty steamed,’’ I ventured.
Well,
let’s
see
where
that
got
me
.

‘‘Wouldn’t
you
be?’’

‘‘Sure I would.’’ Frustration made me bolder. ‘‘Uh, how did Meredith put it, anyway?’’

‘‘Well, of course, I wasn’t there, but according to Midge, all Meredith kept saying was how sorry she was and that she should have gotten up the courage to tell him sooner. Midge said she must have used the word ‘sorry’ a dozen times. Sorry! As though that would make everything all right!’’

‘‘And what did Larry say to
her
?’’ I gritted my teeth, anticipating the kind of less-than-illuminating answer I’d get. And I got it.

‘‘He told her she could stay on in the play but that she was poison and that their relationship was over for good.’’

‘‘But he did forgive her eventually.’’

‘‘Yes. But after a thing like that, I don’t know how, do you?’’