Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (28 page)

Chapter 24

Naturally, I told Ellen about what had just occurred to me. I was too wired to so much as
consider
keeping it to myself. (Even Sherlock Holmes had his Watson, you know.)

‘‘What are you going to do?’’ she demanded.

‘‘Go and see him.’’

‘‘Do you think you
should?
What if he’s the perp?’’

I grinned. It sounded so strange hearing Ellen use a word like ‘‘perp.’’

She misunderstood about the grin. ‘‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’’ she snapped. ‘‘He could off you right then and there.’’

‘‘
Off
’’ you? That was an expression even I rarely used; Ellen was definitely spending too much time in front of the tube.

‘‘Look, that’s not going to happen,’’ I assured her. ‘‘How would he explain the presence of this voluptuous body in the middle of his living room floor?’’

‘‘We-e-ll . . .’’ she began, obviously trying to think her retort through as she went along. I interrupted before she got anywhere.

‘‘I had the best meal the other night,’’ I said to divert her. ‘‘At a place called the Sea Scape. We’ve really gotta go sometime.’’

‘‘Don’t try to change the subject,’’ she instructed. Then:

‘‘What did you have there, anyway?’’

I called Eric Foster at his office the next morning. There was no problem getting him to meet with me. ‘‘Eight this evening at my apartment convenient for you?’’ he wanted to know.

I told him that would be fine.

Foster was very cordial when he answered the door that night. ‘‘You look frozen,’’ he observed sympathetically.

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Actually, it wasn’t a particularly cold evening, so, if any

thing, I had turned a little less blue than usual. ‘‘I always look that way,’’ I said. ‘‘Except for maybe the third and fourth weeks in July.’’

He smiled and helped me off with my coat. ‘‘So, coffee?’’

he asked when I was seated in the same impossibly deep sofa that had dwarfed me the last time I was there. ‘‘I even have some tea to offer you now, if you’d prefer—a really excellent blend.’’

‘‘No, nothing, thanks.’’

‘‘Are you here about the check stubs?’’

It hadn’t dawned on me he might think that. The fact is, when I didn’t hear from Fielding Saturday afternoon, I knew it was because he had nothing to tell me. Still, I figured it might be better to start with the stubs and then work my way around to the real reason I’d come. ‘‘Well, I
did
want to know how you made out.’’

‘‘Absolutely nothing,’’ Foster said dejectedly. ‘‘Almost four hours’ worth of stubs, and I didn’t come across a single name I recognized as belonging to either a dentist or a doctor. Which isn’t to say there wasn’t one. Just none I was familiar with.’’

‘‘You tried. I’m sure Sergeant Fielding realized it was a long shot.’’

‘‘That may be, but it would have meant the world to me if I’d been able to help.’’

‘‘Uh, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about, too.’’

‘‘Of course. What’s that?’’

‘‘I was wondering if you’d ever been to your sisters’

apartment before Saturday.’’

‘‘With the way Merry feels about me?’’ The implied de

nial was punctuated with a short, harsh laugh. ‘‘What makes you ask?’’

‘‘I was walking behind you after you got off the elevator. And when you came to the end of the hall, you didn’t even hesitate for a second; it was apparent you knew just which way to turn.’’

Foster smiled a very tight little smile. ‘‘I hate disappoint

ing you, but there is a simple explanation. And it’s
not
that I’d been there on the night of February tenth to do away with my sisters.’’

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I murmured, ‘‘but I have to ask.’’

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He nodded curtly, but he seemed to relax then. ‘‘Actu

ally, I was in the
building
before. Only once—the last time I was in New York. But I never even set a toe in the apartment.’’

‘‘That was in . . . ?’’

‘‘Back in October. I’d come to town a few weeks earlier than I’d expected, y’see, and I thought I’d just pop up there and surprise Mary Ann. Merry wasn’t supposed to be at home that evening; she was
supposed
to be doing a play. Anyway, when I arrived at the building, there was a large group of people going in at the same time, and I more or less attached myself to them. The doorman didn’t even no

tice me, unfortunately, so I went up unannounced. Sneaked up, actually.’’

‘‘Why did you say it was
unfortunate
the doorman didn’t notice you?’’

‘‘I might have spared myself and Merry some trauma if he
had
done.’’

‘‘She was home?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. She was there, all right. And it was she who answered the door.’’

‘‘Didn’t she ask who it was?’’

‘‘I said it was Chuck, this neighbor Mary Ann had men

tioned in a couple of her letters—I was still thinking it was Mary Ann, of course. And then, when Merry opened the door . . .’’ Moving forward in his chair, Foster spoke in

tently now, his eyes fixed on my face. ‘‘It’s a bit difficult to explain, Desiree, but y’see, while I never had a problem telling my sisters apart, I was
expecting
to see Mary Ann, so I wasn’t really
looking
at Merry, if you take my meaning. And they
did
look quite alike, y’know. But in any event, before Merry had a chance to say a word, I went to kiss her. She backed away from me with the most revolted ex

pression on her face! It was as though I were a leper! And, of course, that’s when I knew. But the whole incident was terribly distressing for us both.’’

‘‘What happened then?’’

‘‘Merry informed me that Mary Ann wasn’t at home and

promptly shut the door in my face. But I promise you, I was only too delighted to get the hell away from there.’’

‘‘Do you have any idea why Meredith wasn’t performing

that night?’’

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‘‘She had a sinus infection, Mary Ann told me later, so she had to take a few days off from the play.’’

Then, leaning back in his chair again, Eric Foster said quietly, ‘‘And that was the last time I saw my sister Merry.’’

Back home a short time later, I reviewed everything I’d just heard. And I had to admit it. Foster’s explanation would certainly account for his knowing the way to his sisters’ apartment. (Although I usually get lost the first
ten
times I go anywhere. But then, not everyone is as addlebrained as I am.) Still, I wondered if Mary Ann had ever said anything to Peter about her brother’s impromptu visit. I was about to try to reach him when the phone rang. It was Ellen, wanting to verify that I was still alive and anxious for the details of my meeting with Foster. As soon as I could manage to get off the phone with her, I made the call to Peter.

‘‘Mary Ann never said a word to me about any visit from

Eric,’’ he told me. ‘‘Anyway, I don’t think she did.’’

Okay, so there was no
confirmation
that Foster had gone there that night. But on the other hand, there was abso

lutely no reason to doubt what he’d told me.

Then it occurred to me to phone Larry Shields.

I got right to the purpose of the call. ‘‘I just wanted to know what made you go and see
Showboat
that time—the production Meredith was in, I mean.’’

‘‘Why do I think this is some kind of a trap?’’ he de

manded, a sharpness in his voice.

‘‘It’s not; I swear. In fact, this has nothing to do with you.’’

He hesitated before answering grudgingly, ‘‘All right. I went because this friend of mine was the director.’’

‘‘I was hoping it might be something like that. Do you think you could find out from him if Meredith missed any performances in October with a sinus infection?’’

‘‘I guess I could try,’’ he agreed reluctantly.

It took about twenty minutes for Shields to get back to me. ‘‘I spoke to Raphael, the director, and he remembers Merry being out sick for a few days, but he didn’t know just when it was. So he called the understudy, and she says Merry was out for three days in October with a sinus prob

lem. And if anyone would know,
she
would.’’

‘‘I imagine she would. Thanks, Larry; thanks a lot.’’

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‘‘Yeah,’’ he said a little caustically, ‘‘glad to help.’’

Well, that was that. It all seemed to check out, so once again I’d had a promising lead fizzle out on me. (And what was
with
Larry Shields, anyway?)

I can’t tell you how depressed I felt for the rest of that evening thinking about all of these recent blind alleys of mine.

And very soon I was going to feel worse.
Much
worse. . . . Chapter 25

The following morning, I got the news that
really
kicked me in the teeth.

It came in a phone call from Fielding just before ten. ‘‘I found out something very interesting about your client,’’ he told me evenly.

‘‘What?’’ I asked the question calmly. I didn’t have a clue that anything could actually be wrong.

‘‘You know the dinner he had with that friend of his the night of the shootings?’’

‘‘What about it?’’

‘‘It never happened.’’

‘‘Never happened?’’ I repeated stupidly.

‘‘To put it another way, your client lied.’’

‘‘I’ll be right down.’’

When I got up from the chair, my knees buckled, and going down in the elevator, my heart began racing wildly. It wasn’t until I was in the taxi on my way to the precinct that I calmed down a little.

Even if Peter did lie about that dinner, it didn’t mean he had anything to do with the shootings. Peter wouldn’t do anything like that. He
couldn’t
do anything like that. Of this I was one thousand percent sure.

When I got to the station, Fielding was on the phone. He motioned for me to have a seat next to his desk. Corco

ran, happily, was nowhere to be seen.

Fielding’s call didn’t last more than another couple of minutes. And then he began his destruction of my entire nervous system.

‘‘On Sunday, we finally looked into Winters’s alibi,’’ he told me. ‘‘Corcoran and I dropped in at that restaurant he
claims
he had dinner at.’’

‘‘
Claims?
Didn’t you check with his ex-roommate? The two of them had dinner
together
.’’

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‘‘Of course we checked,’’ Fielding snapped. ‘‘We ques

tioned the roommate weeks ago, and he confirmed your kid’s story. That’s why we didn’t look into it any further. But we should have gone and talked to them over at the restaurant regardless, right at the beginning. Just as a mat

ter of course. Only at that time there were a lot of other things going on, and we didn’t really consider the kid a suspect, anyway.’’

‘‘So why now?’’ I asked through parched lips.

‘‘Because with the way we’ve been striking out all over the place, we decided to go back to square one and rethink everything. And I—’’ He stopped talking abruptly, scowl

ing. ‘‘What the hell’s the matter with me? What am I going into all these explanations for? The bottom line is, the kid lied. The restaurant he says he and his friend ate in that Monday night is
closed
on
Mondays
.’’

‘‘Is
that
all?’’ I said, momentarily relieved. ‘‘You know how spacey Peter can be sometimes.’’ Not liking the sound of that once it came out, I quickly added, ‘‘Especially with the kind of stress he’s been under.’’ Fielding glared at me stonily. ‘‘He probably got the name mi—’’

‘‘Save your breath,’’ he broke in. ‘‘We talked to the roommate yesterday, kid named Norman Flynt. And after a few potent threats, Flynt admitted he and your client didn’t break bread together the night of the shootings, after all.’’

Suddenly I felt as though aliens had zapped all the strength from my body.

‘‘They planned to,’’ Fielding was saying. ‘‘And as a mat

ter of fact, they were talking on the phone at six-fifteen that night, deciding where to eat, when someone rang Winters’s doorbell. He went to open the door, and when he got on the phone again, he told Flynt he’d call him back in a few minutes. He called back in a few minutes, all right—

to cancel.

‘‘The next day, Flynt went back home to Maine, and then, that night, he got a call from your client. It was to ask him to swear to that phony alibi he’d involved him in.’’