Murder Can Ruin Your Looks

by Selma Eichler

  She wasn’t quite as pleased with my news as I’d hoped she’d be. ‘‘You didn’t!’’ she accused so shrilly that I had to remove the receiver from my ear again. A moment later, she said more calmly, ‘‘I know you have my interests at heart, Aunt Dez, but it is so embarrassing to—’’

  ‘‘Just hold on!’’ I commanded. ‘‘I did not do what you’re thinking I did. Will Fitzgerald approached me about intro

  ducing him to someone. He hasn’t been in New York very long, and he’s busy studying for the New York bar most of the time, so he hasn’t been able to develop much of a social life. We got into a conversation this morning, and he asked if I knew any nice girls, and I said no. The only one I know jumps to all kinds of conclusions and has her poor old aunt on a Maalox diet.’’

  Ellen giggled for a second, then stopped abruptly. ‘‘I’m sorry. Really,’’ she said, chastened. ‘‘I guess I’m overly sen

  sitive sometimes. Tell me, what’s he like?’’

  ‘‘Well, this was the first time we actually talked—I mean, besides our usual ‘good mornings’ and ‘good nights’—but he’s very personable. And Elliot Gilbert was telling me last week how bright he is. And he’s really nice-looking, too. Not very tall, but taller than you—five-nine or -ten, I’d say—with curly brown hair, a good build, and a dynamite smile.’’ It was time to close the sale. ‘‘Look, what have you got to lose? I thought maybe the two of you could come over for dinner Sunday night. I don’t think Will has much money; besides, I figured if it didn’t click, you could excuse yourself right after the meal and cut out.’’

  She agreed that the dinner was a pretty good idea. ‘‘You

  know how nervous I get when I don’t know someone, so your being there should make it a little easier. But I hate to see you go to any bother.’’

  Now, I love to cook—as Ellen is very well aware. (She’s eaten at my place often enough, for heaven’s sake.) But,

  24

  Selma Eichler

  at any rate, I assured her I’d be happy to do it, and she thanked me and said great and that she’d come.

  Then I told her about my new case.

  ‘‘Oh, my God!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘I read about that in the papers. It was just awful! They were really beautiful, too, weren’t they? And even younger than I am!’’ She mulled the whole thing over for a moment, then said excitedly,

  ‘‘You know this case could make you famous, don’t you, Aunt Dez?’’ Those last words were barely out of her mouth when she gave me another ‘‘Oh, my God.’’ But this time it came out in a whisper.

  ‘‘What’s the matter?’’

  ‘‘You could get yourself killed; don’t you realize that?

  You said you’d never accept another murder case as long as you lived. And you had a good reason for saying it, too. Don’t you remember what happened the last time?’’

  I explained that a condition of my taking the case was that my involvement would be limited. ‘‘My client just wants to know whether his fianceé is dead or alive. He doesn’t even care who the perpetrator is—or at least that’s how he feels now. Anyhow, I made it clear that once I find out what happened to his fianceé, my job’s over.’’

  Ellen was not the least bit mollified. ‘‘I don’t see how that’s possible—restricting your investigation like that.’’

  ‘‘I think I know better what’s possible,’’ I retorted in this withering tone I usually reserve for people in the supermar

  ket who try to get on the ten-item express line with twenty items. I can only blame my reaction on an unwillingness to admit—particularly to myself—that Ellen was right. And, of course, I felt like a real bitch a second later. Ellen spoke before I had a chance to say how sorry I was.

  ‘‘Well, I still don’t like it,’’ she grumbled. ‘‘Just be very, very careful. Promise me.’’

  I promised her.

  She got the last word, though. ‘‘And by the way, you’re a fine one to talk about Maalox; you should have you for an aunt.’’

  When we hung up, I was shaking my head and smiling to myself. Ellen’s twenty-eight, but there are times I could swear they screwed up on her birth certificate. She’s usually so naive and open, so basically young, that it’s hard to believe she’s been around that long. And in New York, too. But then, at other times she’ll come up with something

  MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS

  25

  remarkably perceptive or intuitive, putting her finger on a truth I hadn’t considered. Or, as in this instance, hadn’t wanted to.

  Later that night, right before I drifted off to sleep, I thought about Ellen and Will Fitzgerald. He really did seem nice. I fervently hoped it would work out between them. Poor Ellen was due. Her last relationship had been with a guy who turned out to be raw sewage.

  I began building a few castles in the air. Wouldn’t it be something if this turned out to be it for her. I was even wondering if they’d be able to find a priest and a rabbi willing to perform a joint ceremony. (I don’t know if I mentioned it, but Ellen is actually Ed’s niece. She’s Jewish, while—with a name like Will Fitzgerald—it was fairly safe to assume that the prospective bridegroom was not.) It didn’t matter, though; the deliriously happy couple could always be married by a judge or a justice of the peace or somebody.

  Suddenly my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton batting. What would my sister-in-law, Margot, Ellen’s mother, have to say about all this? She’d kill me, that’s what she’d do, for finding her only daughter an Irish Catho

  lic fiance´.

  Worse yet, she might not invite me to the wedding. Chapter 4

  First thing in the morning, I called the homicide detective Peter had mentioned as being in charge of the case. It happens that Tim Fielding and I have a kind of special relationship. He and my husband, Ed, had been pretty tight when they were on the force together years ago—before Ed left and became a P.I. Before Ed and I even met, in fact. And, quite apart from their friendship (which for the longest time I was completely unaware of), I got to know Tim myself, crossing paths with him on any number of oc

  casions during my investigations. He wasn’t working homi

  cide back then, of course. And in my younger, smarter days, I wasn’t, either.

  Fielding sounded pleased to hear from me. Until I told him why I wanted to talk to him.

  ‘‘That’s the only thing this lousy case was missing,’’ he groused. ‘‘You.’’

  Now, you have to understand something about Tim

  Fielding. He’s one of the nicest, most good-natured people you’d ever want to meet. From my point of view, if there was one lucky thing about this tragedy it was the fact that it had taken place in Fielding’s precinct. But you’d never be able to tell all this by listening to us rag each other. Which is something we do a lot of. I think it’s because, for some dumb reason, we’re determined to make sure our feelings for one another—which, I assure you, are as pla

  tonic as they can get—don’t show. I guess it’s become al

  most a game with us by now.

  It was my turn with the needle. ‘‘It’ll be nice working with you again, too,’’ I told him. ‘‘You have such a gra

  cious manner.’’

  ‘‘What’s this ‘working with you’ crap? Since when did you become a member of the force? And in case you for

  got, I already have a partner, thank you.’’

  MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS

  27

  Fortunately, I hadn’t eaten much of a breakfast. Even so

  much as thinking about Walter Corcoran turned my stom

  ach. As Fielding very well knew. ‘‘I realize that,’’ I retorted sweetly, ‘‘and you sound like he’s been giving you some sensitivity training lately.’’

  We spent another minute or two on more inane banter before I got around to asking Fielding to meet with me. He gave me a little bit of a hard time, which figured. And then he gave in. As I knew he would.
<
br />   He suggested a twelve-thirty lunch at this coffee shop not far from the precinct.

  I was almost a block away from the place when I spotted

  Tim going in. Even from the back, you couldn’t miss that short, muscular, fireplug body of his, the close-cropped salt and pepper hair. And nobody else has a walk like that. Actually, walk is probably a misnomer. It’s more like a strut.

  ‘‘I thought you were through with homicides,’’ he said when we were seated, making it sound like a challenge.

  ‘‘I am. I’m looking into something else entirely. Let’s eat first; then I’ll explain.’’

  ‘‘You better start explaining as soon as we give the order. I have to be back in an hour.’’

  So right after the waiter took our sandwich orders, I told Fielding about Peter and Ashtabula, making it very clear that my only interest was in helping my client establish whether his fianceé was dead or alive.

  ‘‘That’s all you’re interested in, huh?’’

  ‘‘Honestly, Tim, it’s what I was hired for, and it’s the only thing on my mind. Don’t you believe me?’’

  ‘‘I believe you believe it; let’s put it that way. Or, I should say, that you’d like to believe it. But you’re not even as smart as I thought you were if you really think it’s possi

  ble to separate things out like that.’’ Swell. Just what I needed to hear. Again. ‘‘But we’ll leave that discussion for another time,’’ he went on. ‘‘So just what is it you want from me? You want to know how it went down, right?’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  ‘‘Let’s see,’’ he ruminated, screwing up his face as he combed his memory for the details. ‘‘One of the twins, Mary Ann—I’ll tell you later how we know it was her—

  was found on the living room floor, a few feet from the

  28

  Selma Eichler

  sofa. There was no sign of a struggle, nothing to indicate forcible entry. So we have to assume she was acquainted with the perp. Anyway, the other sister . . . what was her name?’’

  ‘‘Meredith.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, Meredith. She was shot at the end of this long entry foyer, right where you turn the corner into the living room. The doorman’s pretty sure the first sister to come home that night—that would be Mary Ann—got in around seven-thirty, maybe a few minutes before. He told us she came in at the same time as one of the other tenants; he remembers because the two of ’em were joking around to

  gether. We checked with the man—a Mr. Milano—and he verified the doorman’s information. He says he walked into his apartment at exactly seven-thirty. Says he was aware of the time because he was so disappointed at not being able to catch even the last few minutes of Jeopardy!

  ‘‘Milano knew it was Mary Ann he’d been talking to?’’

  ‘‘As a matter of fact, he didn’t. It was a casual conversa

  tion. But that’s okay. I told you; we know it was.’’

  ‘‘What about Meredith? When did she get home?’’

  ‘‘We can’t pin that down as closely. Doorman thinks the second sister got in around an hour later. But he admits that’s just a guess. And we haven’t been able to find anyone else who can nail down the time for us. But it’s very un

  likely Meredith came home before eight, at the earliest. We can be reasonably certain of that from the facts we already have.’’

  ‘‘Which are?’’

  ‘‘Hold your horses, will you? I’m getting there. Now, the way we piece it together, the perp was in the living room with Mary Ann. Could be they even sat around and talked for a while. Maybe waiting for Meredith.’’

  ‘‘Then you think Meredith was actually the intended victim?’’

  ‘‘That’s certainly one possibility. Did you know Mary Ann was supposed to be going out to dinner straight from work that night?’’

  ‘‘Peter told me.’’ Just then, our sandwiches arrived. The minute the waiter walked away, I said, ‘‘You know, it also could have happened the other way around. I mean, who’s to say the killer knew about Mary Ann’s dinner plans?

  Maybe she was the target. And then Meredith walked in

  MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS

  29

  right after the shooting and, thanks to her lousy timing, got her face practically blown off, too.’’

  ‘‘Sure. It could have gone down like that,’’ Fielding con

  ceded. ‘‘The only trouble is, by ten of eight at the outside, the perp was already in the apartment.’’ I opened my mouth, but Fielding anticipated me. ‘‘And don’t ask me how we know that. I’ll—’’

  This time, I anticipated him. ‘‘I’ll explain later, so hold your horses,’’ I cut in, mimicking his tone.

  He touched his hand to his forehead and presented me with a mock salute before going on. ‘‘The point is, if Mary Ann was the target, why not make the hit and get the hell out of there? Why hang around until Meredith came home?

  Unless she was the intended victim or unless it was sup

  posed to be a doubleheader all along. Right?’’

  He didn’t expect an answer. And he didn’t get one. I started to ask about something else. ‘‘Say, what do you—’’

  ‘‘Why don’t you cool it for a couple of minutes and start eating? Your sandwich is getting cold.’’

  ‘‘It’s tuna fish, Tim,’’ I reminded him, picking up the sandwich anyway.

  ‘‘Well, then let me eat,’’ he said, taking a large bite of his grilled Taylor ham. ‘‘And by the way,’’ he informed me after a couple of minutes, ‘‘Meredith wasn’t just shot in the face; neither of them were. They both sustained body wounds first; one of them in the thorax—that’s the chest area—and—’’

  ‘‘I know where the thorax is,’’ I put in, slightly miffed.

  ‘‘—And the other,’’ Fielding continued, ignoring the in

  terruption, ‘‘in the abdomen. Only we don’t know which one was shot where,’’ he said, rolling his eyes back in his head, ‘‘because EMS screwed up. What we got with this case, Dez,’’ he grumbled, ‘‘is a really beautiful example of Murphy’s law: ‘Anything that can go wrong will go wrong’; isn’t that how it goes?’’

  A few seconds and another bite of Taylor ham later, he added characteristically, ‘‘Not that I can really blame those guys.’’ (I told you how nice he is.) ‘‘Both women were a bloody mess but they were both alive at that point—al

  though barely—and the Emergency people were in a hel

  luva hurry to get them to a hospital. So I guess what happened is understandable. But, damn it, it would cer

  30

  Selma Eichler

  tainly make it easier on everyone if we knew who was lying in St. Catherine’s right now.’’

  ‘‘What did happen, anyway?’’

  ‘‘EMS didn’t discover the body wounds until the women were in the ambulance; that’s what happened.’’

  I have to confess that, for a moment at least, I had no idea what Fielding was getting at. And I must have been wearing my stupidity on my face, because he went ahead and cleared things up for me. ‘‘Look,’’ he explained pa

  tiently, ‘‘I told you we’re sure Mary Ann was shot near the living room sofa and that Meredith bought it at the end of the foyer. So if the EMS guys had been able to tell us where the woman who had the chest wound was lying—

  she happens to be the survivor, incidentally—we’d know if it was Meredith or Mary Ann who made it.’’

  Of course! I should have picked that up right away!

  ‘‘Don’t feel so bad,’’ Fielding consoled, aware of my em

  barrassment. ‘‘This case is such a ball-buster it has me bit

  ing my nails up to the elbow. A few more days like the ones we’ve had, and I’ll probably wind up talking to myself.’’

  ‘‘I suppose you checked to see if anyone in the building knows anything,’’ I said, anxious to move on.

  ‘‘No, we didn’t
,’’ Fielding replied in this deceptively pleasant voice. ‘‘That’s why I agreed to have lunch with you. I was hoping to get some tips on how to conduct a proper homicide investigation.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry. Naturally you checked; I know that. It’s just that sometimes my brain can’t catch up with my mouth.’’

  ‘‘Sometimes nothing can catch up with that mouth,’’ Fiel

  ding muttered. But I could see that he was trying to smother a grin. ‘‘For your information, we started talking to the other tenants on Tuesday morning, and we’re still talking to them on the chance that we’ll find someone who saw something. We’re sure no one heard anything; that’s one of the few new luxury buildings around that’s really soundproof. Figures, doesn’t it?’’

  ‘‘What did the doorman say? About visitors, I mean,’’ I asked then.

  ‘‘Just what you could predict he’d say, with the way things are shaking out. That the twins didn’t have any visi

  tors that night—at least while he was on duty. He insists no one could have gotten past him.’’

  MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS

  31

  ‘‘Incidentally, how could you tell it was the second shot that was the one in the face?’’

  ‘‘Because, from the position of the bullets, we know the perp was standing over his victims when the facial wounds were inflicted. Both women were already flat on their backs when he let them have it in the face.’’

  I shuddered and hoped Fielding—hardened homicide de

  tective that he was—hadn’t noticed. But he had. ‘‘If you think it sounds grisly, you should have seen those two.’’

  ‘‘What did he use?’’

  ‘‘A thirty-eight. And we’re still looking for it.’’

  ‘‘It’s amazing that one of those girls is still with us.’’

  ‘‘More than amazing. This doctor I was talking to yester

  day morning called it a miracle. The bullet missed the sur

  viving victim’s heart by that much.’’ He held up his thumb and forefinger, positioning them so there was barely an inch of space between them. ‘‘And then the second bullet—the one in the face—ricocheted off the jaw and up into her brain. That woman must have some constitution! All I can say is, it’s gotta be the genes, because the other sister lasted until she got on the operating table. And with the damage she sustained, the doctors consider that an even bigger mir