Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (39 page)

ing on Foster.’’

‘‘That’s what
you
say. Did I tell you before that I think you’re a genius?’’ There was a kind of awe in Ellen’s voice, and by all rights I should have felt uncomfortable. But I didn’t. Even though her appraisal was completely out of whack with reality, it was still nice to hear—especially since I’d been having such frequent doubts about my ability lately.

‘‘I don’t think you ever used those exact words—not re

cently, anyhow,’’ I responded, ‘‘so please feel free to rave on.’’

Ellen grinned. But in a few moments she was thoughtful again. ‘‘I was just wondering,’’ she said. ‘‘Suppose Foster’s plan—to confuse his sisters’ identities, that is—had worked out the way he wanted it to. Would he have come into all of Meredith’s money?’’

‘‘I was wondering the same thing. So, to satisfy my curi

osity, I checked with Pat Sullivan—you know, one of the law partners in my office—to find out what he would legally have been entitled to. Pat says that under New York State law, if the twins were judged to have died simultaneously—

which would be the case if no one could determined the order of their deaths—Foster would have inherited half of what they held as
joint
tenants
. In other words, Mary Ann’s share of the assets. And we know that the condo, at least, was in both names, so he would have gotten a nice little bundle when that was sold. Oh, I wish you could see that place, Ellen; it’s really something,’’ I gushed.

Ellen forced me to get back to business. ‘‘And the other half of the money from the apartment? That would have gone to an AIDS charity?’’

‘‘Uh-huh. According to this phantom will of Meredith’s. But listen, Tim Fielding’s been saying all along that those girls must have a lot of money around
somewhere
. And from what Peter told me last week about Garibaldi’s suc

cess with his invention, I’ve got to believe that. Anyway, if

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it
does
turn out to be true, Mary Ann may be listed as a joint tenant on a lot of things. So Foster could actually have made a real killing.’’ I was aware of my unfortunate choice of expression almost instantly. ‘‘Oh, geez,’’ I muttered.

But Ellen was too caught up with finances to notice.

‘‘And if it was found that Mary Ann had actually died first, he wouldn’t have gotten
anything
?

‘‘Pat said that if any assets in both names stipulated the right of survivorship—which is very common—Meredith

would automatically have inherited Mary Ann’s share. So Foster would have been out of luck.’’

‘‘What if the—what is it called—
wasn’t
stipulated?’’

‘‘Right of survivorship. Well, I’m not positive, but I imag

ine, in that case, Foster would have had to split Mary Ann’s share with Meredith’s estate, since he and Meredith would both have been in line to inherit.’’

Ellen’s forehead scrunched up, and she cocked her head to one side as though listening to her own thoughts. After a while, she asked, ‘‘Do you think Foster knew about all this stuff when he concocted the scheme to disfigure them?’’

‘‘Oh, I doubt it; I mean, why would he? It was a lastminute thing, remember? Most likely he was desperate after shooting Mary Ann, and he just figured it would be his best chance to glom onto at least a piece of those millions.’’

‘‘Well, now we know the real reason the devoted brother

wanted to hang around here; he was worried about his sis

ter’s regaining her memory.’’

‘‘You’d better believe it,’’ I said. ‘‘
And
he wanted the money. He probably couldn’t wait to have another crack at her.’’

And that led right into my describing my own aborted scheme to catch Foster in the act.

And
that
led to my describing the terrifying fiasco that precluded it.

As I recounted the previous night’s attack in every lurid detail, I watched the parade of expressions march across Ellen’s face: surprise, apprehension, horror, and, ulti

mately, relief.

‘‘I’m so glad you’re all right,’’ she said, close to tears when I finished. With that, she leaned across the sofa and grabbed me in a hug that was almost fatal. (Ellen, I discov

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ered for the very first time, is a lot stronger than she looks.)

‘‘What made him follow you to that place, do you think?’’

she asked when she released me.

‘‘Oh, I don’t think he followed me at all,’’ I replied as soon as I was breathing normally again. ‘‘I suppose he came to the same conclusion I did: that there was a good possibil

ity Bromley was already back from her vacation. He must have heard she was a jewelry designer and that she might very likely have some knowledge about who owned the ring. Which means he had to get to her before she talked to the police.’’

‘‘Do you think he actually went there to . . . ?’’ It was left to me to fill in the rest.

‘‘Look,’’ I told her, ‘‘Foster had no idea whether that ring was found on the survivor or on the corpse. So he wasn’t about to risk Bromley’s giving out any information that could establish who it belonged to.

‘‘Trust me, Ellen, if she’d been home last night and Fos

ter had gotten in to see her, there’s an excellent chance Charlotte Bromley would have been victim number three.’’

Chapter 39

‘‘I’m sorry I didn’t return your call yesterday,’’ Peter was saying. ‘‘But I didn’t check my machine all day. And then, after the hospital, I met one of the guys at the agency for a couple of drinks, and, well, it turned out to be more than a couple. I didn’t get home until two.’’

I looked at the clock: six-thirty. No one seemed to give a damn about my beauty sleep.

‘‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’’

‘‘Don’t worry about it,’’ I answered, trying unsuccessfully to swallow a yawn.

‘‘I guess I did,’’ Peter murmured contritely. ‘‘I wouldn’t have called so early, but your message said you had news and to get back to you as soon as I could.’’

That shook me awake. ‘‘We’ve got the killer.’’

There was a long pause. ‘‘Who was it?’’ Peter finally asked, his voice low and even. I could appreciate the effort it took to maintain that kind of control.

‘‘Eric.’’

‘‘That son of a bitch,’’ he said in the same quiet tone. Another long pause. Then, his voice growing more forceful with every word, he demanded, ‘‘Why? Why did he do it?’’

‘‘Listen, it’ll take a little while for me to explain. Why don’t we get together later? I could meet you for lunch down by St. Catherine’s.’’

‘‘No, please. I’d like to hear now.’’

So for the next ten minutes I proceeded to give Peter an

abbreviated version of the circumstances I’d laid out for Ellen the night before.

‘‘Damn him to hell!’’ he growled when I was through. He had some questions after that, which he interspersed with a variety of impassioned, but minor-league, curses. Then we both fell silent. And when he spoke again, Peter’s entire manner was changed. ‘‘Listen,’’ he told me brightly,

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‘‘you haven’t heard
my
news yet. Mary Ann’s doctors say she could have her first operation in maybe a couple of weeks.’’

‘‘That’s wonderful!’’ I responded.

He immediately proceeded to elaborate a bit on how pleased everyone was with the girl’s progress. So, in spite of everything, the conversation ended on an upbeat note. But I was only too conscious of the fact that my job wasn’t done yet.

At a quarter of nine, and with almost zero optimism, I tried Charlotte Bromley. The recording still claimed she’d be back the day before. Then, on an impulse, I decided to stop off at her building before going to work that morning. As soon as the taxi pulled up in front of the familiar yellow brick facade, I was reminded of my last visit here and my throat promptly closed up on me. And when I went

to open the cab door, I was disgusted to note that my hand was shaking.

By the time I entered the vestibule, though, I’d suc

ceeded in composing myself a little. Checking the directory, I found a listing that said R. SCHMIDT, SUPER and pressed the buzzer. There was no answer. I was trying to decide what to do next when I heard a slight commotion coming from the direction of the lobby. I turned to see a woman with a baby carriage struggling with the door. She was fighting to keep it from closing in her face, so I grabbed it while she maneuvered the carriage through. Then I let my

self into the lobby.

If the super wasn’t around, I could at least try talking to Bromley’s neighbors.

Walking to the elevators, I had to pass the very spot where I’d so eloquently demonstrated the kind of mush I’m made of. And it came to me then that Sunday night was only the second time in my life I’d passed out like that, my first dead faint occurring during that earlier murder investi

gation of mine. And under not too dissimilar circumstances, too. Well, it looked like I was one of those women who swoon whenever things get really hairy.
And
so
what!
I thought defiantly.

The first thing I did when I got off on the seventh floor was to ring the bell to 7H—just in case. After satisfying myself that Bromley still wasn’t home, I tried 7G, the apart

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ment directly on the left. I had no luck there, either. So I pressed the buzzer to 7I.

‘‘Who is it?’’ someone demanded even before I had a chance to take my finger from the bell. The voice sounded like it was coming from at least a million miles away.

‘‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your neighbor!’’ I shouted through the closed door.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘I want to talk to you about Ms. Bromley!’’

‘‘Speak up!’’ The voice seemed a little closer.

‘‘I’m Charlotte Bromley’s cousin!’’ I yelled.

‘‘Can’t hear a damn thing through these damn doors,’’

the voice muttered, and it was obvious that whoever it be

longed to was now just on the other side of the door. I heard five locks being turned then. A second or two later, the door opened a crack, and a man no taller than I am—most of him hidden from view—was peering out at me from behind a chain. ‘‘Oh, a redhead,’’ he said in this frail, high-pitched voice, and I could feel him eying me up and down. ‘‘Always had a weakness for redheads. When they’re natural, anyways. You natural?’’

‘‘Of course,’’ I answered with a straight face.

‘‘Yeah. Like I’m Ronald Colman,’’ the man shot back, cackling. ‘‘Don’t even mind if my redheads got a few extra pounds on ’em,’’ he informed me magnanimously, removing

the chain from the door and opening it wide.

Framed in the doorway was this wizened little fellow who

must have been close to eighty and who was so thin that his bones jutted out. But he had a handsome thatch of pure white hair and the most mischievous gray-green eyes you’ve ever seen. ‘‘Now, who’d you say you was?’’ he asked. As soon as he spoke, I noticed he didn’t have a tooth in his head.

‘‘I’m Charlotte’s cousin—Charlotte Bromley, your neigh

bor. She expected to be back from vacation yesterday, but she’s still not home. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that.’’

He gave me this gummy, elfin grin. ‘‘Izzatso? Well, you don’t suppose wrong, little girl.’’
Little
girl?

‘‘Then you
do
know where she is?’’

‘‘Betcher life, I do. The super was up here fixin’ my damn sink the other day, and he tells me she’s gonna be stayin’

at her sister’s a little longer. She had to have her gallblad

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der taken out real sudden over there, and the doctors don’t want her doin’ no travelin’ yet.’’

‘‘Do you happen to have her sister’s address?’’

‘‘Don’t
you
have it? You’re the one’s the cousin; not me.’’

‘‘Europe is all Charlotte told me,’’ I answered, taking a clue from his using the words ‘‘over there.’’ But the little man was looking at me skeptically. ‘‘I just got into town; I’m from the Midwest,’’ I put in quickly. ‘‘And Charlotte didn’t say too much to me on the phone—just that she was

going to visit her sister.’’ He still didn’t appear to be satis

fied, so I finished up with: ‘‘Uh . . . Myra moves around a lot.’’ The name seemed to go pretty well with ‘‘Charlotte.’’

‘‘Myra?’’

‘‘Her sister.’’

‘‘Paris, France; that’s where she is,’’ he told me then,