Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (33 page)

Merry’s one of the most forthright people I’ve ever met; she’s strong, too. If
she
found it so hard to talk about, what makes me think I’d be any different?’’ And then Shields smiled, and I saw again what made him so attractive to women. ‘‘But, hell,’’ he confided, ‘‘the big reason, the
over

riding
reason we got back together is because I loved her. And I still do.’’

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‘‘Well, I guess I understand now why you tried to keep the argument quiet.’’

‘‘It’s Merry’s secret,’’ Shields said, confirming my thoughts. ‘‘It’s up to her once she regains her memory whether or not she wants to tell anybody. But as long as it’s all come out, at least I’ll be able to start going to the hospital. This doctor I mentioned before? Just yesterday he was saying how—if it
is
Merry lying there—seeing me could help jog her memory.’’

‘‘That could be. But I’m afraid the police might still have some qualms about letting you visit her.’’

‘‘What now?’’ he asked tersely.

‘‘They might feel there’s a chance—a very
outside
chance—that you only pretended to reconcile with Mere

dith to avoid suspicion later on.’’

‘‘If I could plot things out like that,’’ Shields shot back angrily, I wouldn’t be a director; I’d be a playwright. Or a goddamned P.I.’’

That little talk had certainly produced a few answers. And a few more questions, too.

Would a man like Larry Shields really murder his lover for not leveling with him about her husband’s AIDS—even

though he was apparently in no danger? Well, all I could say—and with zero conviction—was that it
was
possible. And then I got this idea that made it a whole lot
more
possible.

Who knew for a fact when Meredith had last had rela

tions with her husband? Maybe Shields suspected her of lying to him about that. Or maybe Shields was lying to me. For that matter, maybe he’d already had himself tested for AIDS—and learned he was HIV positive!

Wait a minute. . . .

Maybe I should be looking at the same kind of ‘‘maybes’’

with regard to Lucille Collins, too.

Let’s say Collins hoped to get back with her ex-boyfriend eventually (the safest bet on the boards). Okay, then just imagine how she might have felt if she thought there was even a remote chance that Meredith—who had appro

priated Shields from her in the first place—had now ex

posed him to AIDS!

You know, I can think of a lot shabbier reasons for com

mitting murder.

Chapter 30

‘‘Hi, Dez. I was just going to try
you,
’’ Fielding said civilly when I called him from the office that morning. He re

minded me a lot of the Tim Fielding I used to know.

‘‘Really? What’s up?’’ I asked cautiously.

‘‘For one thing, we checked out the kid’s alibi, and the woman confirms he was with her the night of the shootings

from sometime after six until almost nine-thirty.’’

‘‘You’ll let him back into the hospital room now, of course.’’

‘‘He’s probably there right this minute. Listen, the real reason I wanted to talk to you is to apologize. I don’t know what the hell got into me last week; my wife even threat

ened to chop me up and stuff me down the garbage disposal.’’

‘‘The case is a bitch.’’

‘‘You can say that again. But it’s still no excuse. Anyhow, I’m really sorry, and I owe you a nice lunch—that is, if you can stand sitting across the table from me.’’

‘‘That depends on where you plan on taking me.’’

Fielding laughed and said that maybe we could make it the end of the week.

Since he was feeling so remorseful, it was a pretty good time to pump him a little. ‘‘Listen, Tim, did Peter tell you about Charlotte Bromley?’’

‘‘You mean about her being a jewelry designer?’’ He laughed again. ‘‘We already knew all about that. That friend of the twins’ who lives in their building—Josephs—

happened to mention it weeks ago.’’

‘‘Where did the ring suddenly come from after all this time, anyway?’’

‘‘I have your word you won’t repeat this?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

‘‘Okay. It seems the survivor had the ring on when they

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brought her into the recovery room that night. But look, we think it’s advisable that no one knows which of the women was wearing it,’’ he cautioned, waiting until I mur

mured my agreement before continuing. ‘‘At any rate, one of the nurses who was on duty noticed it and took it off the girl’s finger to put in a drawer for safekeeping. But when she looked for it the next day, it was gone. Well, this nurse was new there, and apparently she felt a little responsible and didn’t want to get into any trouble. Also, the ring didn’t look particularly valuable—not like a dia

mond or anything—and, of course, she had no idea it could be important to us. So anyhow, she decided not to say anything about it.

‘‘But then last week, she went to take something else out of that same drawer, and there was the ring; it had gotten wedged all the way in the back. This time, she took it in to her supervisor and told her the whole story, and the supervisor turned it over to us.’’

‘‘The ring, it was an amethyst I think Peter said.’’ When you’re dealing with Peter it never hurts to check things out.

‘‘Amethysts are a purplish color?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Then it’s an amethyst.’’

‘‘I think there’s a good chance Bromley’ll know who it belongs to, don’t you?’’

‘‘That’s what I’m hoping. So far, nobody else is too sure. At any rate, Bromley’s due back next week, so we’ll find out soon.’’

After Fielding and I had exchanged cordial good-byes—

for a change—I spent about a half hour paying some bills. And then I just sat at my desk thinking. And what I thought was that it might be a nice gesture to forgive myself for all the ways I’d screwed up in the investigation so far. Okay, I conceded, so I’d made some mistakes. But it
was
only my second murder case. If I ever decided to take one on again—which I considered highly doubtful—I was sure to be a lot better at it. (But then, I almost had to be, didn’t I?) Besides, I didn’t see where Fielding, for all his experience, was doing such a hot job, either. He’d made the same assumption I had about the twins’ money, hadn’t he?
Unless
he was just letting me
think
that.
Nah!
If he—

It was right in the middle of this silent soliloquy that

MURDER
CAN
RUIN
YOUR
LOOKS

201

Jackie buzzed me. ‘‘Stuart Mason’s out at reception,’’ she informed me.

Now, that was a pleasant surprise! Stuart had practically been in hibernation since the beginning of tax season. I’d only spoken to him a couple of times since he took those few hours off for his birthday dinner—and then very briefly. I really didn’t think I’d be setting eyes on him before May.

‘‘I was with a client right across the street,’’ he explained when I walked out to greet him, ‘‘and I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were free for a quick lunch.’’

Lunch turned out to be not quick at all. We went to HSF—a Chinese restaurant not too far from my office that serves the most fantastic dim sum—and stuffed ourselves silly on an almost endless parade of little delicacies. All the while, we chatted incessantly, the way good friends who haven’t talked to each other recently are likely to do. Stuart immediately wanted to know if I’d made any prog

ress with the case yet.

‘‘Some,’’ I said, ‘‘but I’m still a long way from solving it.’’ For the briefest of moments, I thought about telling him how right he’d been in advising me to check Peter’s alibi. But then I realized I’d prefer being torn apart by wild animals to admitting something like that. I mean, Ellen’s showing me up was one thing. But enough was definitely enough. ‘‘You look tired,’’ I remarked instead.

‘‘At this point, I’m too numb to be tired. You don’t ex

actly look like you’re full of energy yourself.’’

‘‘What
I
am is frustrated. There’s probably something I know that I don’t know I know. If you follow me.’’

‘‘I’m afraid I do,’’ he told me, grinning, ‘‘and it’s wor

rying the hell out of me.’’ Then he made the same sugges

tion he’d made that other time I was wrestling with a murder case. ‘‘Why don’t you get away for a little while?

My brother and sister-in-law still have that cabin upstate, and they never go there this time of year. I’m sure they’d be glad to let you use the place for a few days or a week—

as long as you like. Just so you’re out of there by July,’’

he joked. ‘‘Seriously, it would clear your head, give you a fresh perspective.’’

‘‘Thanks, but it wouldn’t do any good right now.’’ He started to protest, but he didn’t get the words out fast enough. ‘‘Honestly, Stuart,’’ I put in quickly, ‘‘I wouldn’t

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be able to leave it behind me.’’ And then, before I could stop myself—and knowing I was turning as red as my glori

ously hennaed hair—I said, ‘‘Why don’t we wait till my case and the tax season are both over, so you can come up there with me?’’

Stuart knew just what I was suggesting—you didn’t ex

actly have to be a Rhodes scholar—and he looked at me levelly. ‘‘I’d like that, Dez; I really would.’’

Since we were headed in opposite directions, I left Stuart at the restaurant and started to walk back to the office. I’d gone just a couple of blocks when it started to rain. (The WNBC forecast that morning had been for sunny skies all day, so I really shouldn’t have been surprised.)

Now, while I didn’t have far to go, I also didn’t have an umbrella, and it was coming down pretty hard. I checked out Second Avenue. There wasn’t an empty cab to be seen,

so I cut over to Third. No hope for a taxi here, either. But what there
was,
was a video store. And I’m not so dumb that I don’t know enough to come in out of the rain. Well, as long as I was there, I decided that it might not be a bad idea to rent a movie for the night. I went to the section marked DRAMA. A good oldie would be nice. I spot

ted
The
Diary
of
Anne
Frank
. Uh-uh, too sad.
Gallipoli
. I read the blurb on the cover; sounded grim.
Laura
. One of my favorites, but why not try something I hadn’t already seen a hundred times?
Raging
Bull
. I’d seen that one be

fore, too—only once, but, if I remembered right, I hadn’t been all that crazy about it.
The
Elephant
Man
. Another tearjerker. I’d probably be better off in that section with the new releases. . . .

Oh, the hell with it. The rain had let up by now, so I should be getting back, anyway.

Maybe I’d stop somewhere after work and pick up a pocket book—a murder mystery. Just what I needed, right?

Chapter 31

I was anxious to know how things had gone on Peter’s first day back at the hospital. So as soon as I finished dinner Tuesday night, I called and left a message on his machine. Then I decided to dig out my notes on the case. Whatever

it was I was looking for was in there somewhere; I’d swear to it. And, no doubt inspired by the little talk I’d had with my

self that morning, I somehow got the idea in my head that tonight I would find it. But even after going over every page three or four times, I didn’t know any more when I closed the folder than I did when I’d opened it.

I had really built up my expectations, too. (And you’d think I’d have known better than to trust me, wouldn’t you?) In fact, I’d managed to make myself so manic that I just couldn’t seem to wind down after that.

I started reading the new Mary Higgins Clark paperback

I’d picked up in Woolworth’s on the way home, but I didn’t make it any further than the third paragraph. So I put it away and rifled through the newspaper; I couldn’t concen

trate long enough to take in more than two or three senten

ces. Then I checked the
TV
Guide
on the coffee table; there was nothing on television I was even remotely interested in seeing. I really should have rented one of those videos. If I’d loved
Laura
the first hundred times, why wouldn’t I have loved it the hundred and first? Or maybe I should have tried
Raging
Bull
again. I might have enjoyed it more this time, now that I was no longer of such tender years. (All right, so they weren’t so tender even then.) It was about that fighter . . . what was his name? Rocky Marciano, I think. No, Jake LaMotta. That was it. There was some