Murder Can Ruin Your Looks

by Selma Eichler

  ‘‘Not yet.’’

  ‘‘How’s Peter holding up?’’

  ‘‘He’s in a lot of pain. But he is holding up. You know Peter?’’

  ‘‘Oh, yes. I’ve met him a number of times.’’

  ‘‘You were very friendly with the twins, I gather.’’

  ‘‘They were dear, dear friends of mine.’’

  ‘‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm either of them?’’

  ‘‘Good grief, no! They were both wonderful ladies.’’

  ‘‘Think. Please. Is there anything you can tell me about their relationships with other people that might help? Any

  thing at all?’’

  Springer’s high forehead wrinkled up like an accordion. Then, closing his eyes and pursing his lips, he seemed to retreat into an almost trancelike state. But when he spoke a few moments later, it was to tell me what I already knew: that, years ago, Meredith had had a falling out with her brother over her future husband and that Mary Ann had been engaged to some lowlife whose name he couldn’t re

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  member. (In fact, he had serious doubts it had ever even been mentioned.)

  I wasn’t ready to give up yet. ‘‘Mary Ann never had problems with anyone else?’’

  ‘‘If she did, she never told me about it.’’

  ‘‘And Meredith?’’

  ‘‘Meredith was very closemouthed. I didn’t even hear about this thing with Eric—that’s the brother—from her. Mary Ann brought it up after one of Eric’s trips to New York; she said how bad she felt that there was this rift in the family.’’

  ‘‘Mary Ann used to confide in you?’’

  ‘‘No, not really. As a matter of fact, she didn’t talk much more about personal things than Meredith did. And neither of them liked to dish, either. It was very disappointing sometimes,’’ Springer declared, grinning mischievously,

  ‘‘but I guess that’s one of the things that made them so nice.’’ In an instant, he turned serious again. ‘‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,’’ he said sadly.

  Well, that was that. I might as well have stayed home and watched Cheers for all I’d found out here tonight. Then, just as I was getting to my feet, Springer stopped me cold. ‘‘Wait!’’ he commanded excitedly. ‘‘I just thought of something! I don’t see how it could have slipped my mind! It was only about a month ago, too!’’

  ‘‘What is it?’’ My heart was starting to thump like crazy.

  ‘‘Well, one night I went over there to see if I could store this casserole in their freezer; mine was packed, and theirs is always practically empty. Meredith answered the door—

  she was home alone—and she said sure, no problem. But once I got inside, I realized she’d been crying. I didn’t know whether to mention anything or let it pass. But I didn’t want her to think I didn’t give a damn, you know? So I just asked if there was something wrong.’’

  ‘‘What did she say?’’

  ‘‘She said no, but the minute she said it, she burst into tears. I stood there patting her shoulder like a useless turd—I couldn’t think of what else to do; I’m terrible when it comes to things like that. And after a couple of minutes she pulled herself together and told me she’d just broken up with this guy she started going with recently. I’ve never met the man, but his name is Larry Shields and he was directing this new show she was in. Anyway, she said it

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  was all her fault, that she’d done this terrible, unforgivable thing—I remember her using that word: ’unforgivable.’ And then she said she wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to kick her out of the show. She said that even if he didn’t, though, he’d probably never come near her again.’’

  ‘‘Did she tell you what it was she’d done?’’

  ‘‘No. That was all she said.’’

  ‘‘Did she ever mention it after that?’’

  ‘‘Well . . . no. The thing is, I was really busy with work right around then, so I didn’t see her for maybe five or six days. But I was concerned,’’ he put in quickly. It was obvi

  ous the poor man’s overactive guilt mechanism was at it again. ‘‘Besides,’’ he rationalized, ‘‘she didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and I didn’t want to come off like some kind of a Nosy Parker, you know?’’

  He waited for my nod before going on. ‘‘And then when

  I did see her, she seemed happy enough. So I figured it had just been a little lover’s spat that she’d blown out of proportion—the way we all do, you know?—and that they probably got back together again. Which, I later found out, is exactly what did happen.’’ He looked at me anxiously.

  ‘‘You can see why it didn’t occur to me right away, can’t you? About the breakup, that is. I mean, it all worked out fine.’’

  Well, it seems I’d finally learned something that made giving up my nine P.M. rendezvous with Ted Danson a lot easier to take. (He’s really too good-looking for my taste, anyway.)

  I stood up then. We’d covered everything I could think of; also, I was anxious to talk to the doorman. But getting out of there wasn’t easy. I had to call upon all of my really pathetic willpower to decline a piece of the chocolate torte that, Chuck Springer pronounced, was one of his best recipes.

  The doorman’s name was Harris. I don’t know if it was his first name or his last, because he just said, ‘‘Call me Harris.’’

  ‘‘I understand, Harris,’’ I put to him, ‘‘that you told the police the twins didn’t have any visitors Monday night.’’

  ‘‘That’s not what I said,’’ he responded emphatically.

  ‘‘What did you say?’’

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  ‘‘I said that nobody could have got up to that apartment while I was on duty. Not without my calling upstairs first.’’

  ‘‘Is there another way into the building?’’

  ‘‘Around the side, but you should get a load of the locks on that door. Anyhow, the police checked to make sure no

  one broke in, and no one did.’’

  ‘‘Then how could this have happened? Do you think the killer may be someone living in the building?’’

  ‘‘Oh, I hope not!’’

  ‘‘Well, what do you think?’’

  ‘‘I think whoever it was did this snuck in during the shift before mine. Diaz—he’s on seven a.m. to three—walks around in a fog these days. I guess it’s because his wife’s expecting a baby, and it’s their first. Don’t get me wrong, Diaz is a good kid. But lately his body may be on West Fifteenth, but, most times, his head’s up on Mars.’’

  I was skeptical. ‘‘If the murderer entered the building on Diaz’s shift, that would mean he had to hang around for hours.’’

  ‘‘That’s right. But he coulda hid out in the basement. Or a utility room, maybe. There are plenty of places to hide,’’

  Harris said obstinately.

  ‘‘Was there anyone you saw leaving the building Monday night that you recognized as having visited the twins before?’’

  ‘‘Those two detectives already asked me that, and I told them no.’’

  ‘‘Isn’t it possible someone got by you?’’ I persisted.

  ‘‘After all, I don’t suppose it’s really crucial to screen peo

  ple once they’ve already been upstairs. And if you’re busy with someone who’s on the way in . . .’’

  Harris chewed that over for a couple of seconds before conceding reluctantly, ‘‘Well, I guess that’s possible. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, so there’s a chance I might’ve missed someone when they were leaving. Espe

  cially if I was busy on the intercom or something. But one thing I’ll tell you for sure: Nobody got in without being announced; not on my shift.’’

  I had this strong conviction that Harris was having a pretty hard time accepting the fact that the tragedy had occurred when
he was on duty. Maybe he even felt that his job was on the line. At any rate, he’d managed to convince himself that poor Diaz was responsible for the killer’s hav

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  ing gained access to the building. Well, he hadn’t con

  vinced me.

  ‘‘What if someone had had a lot of packages that night?’’

  I asked. ‘‘Wouldn’t you have lent a hand?’’

  ‘‘Sure. But nobody did. Besides, I always take care to lock the doors if I’m going to help someone over to the elevator, even though it doesn’t take more than a minute or two.’’ Then, with a look that can best be described as a glare, he defined his position on the matter again. ‘‘Listen,’’

  he said irritably,’’ I keep telling you that when Diaz is on duty, he isn’t on duty, if you get my meaning.’’

  For the life of me, I couldn’t see the perpetrator sitting on his hands—or any other part of his anatomy, for that matter—from three o’clock or even earlier until almost eight. And I hate loose ends. I had to find out how he was able to slip past Harris. ‘‘Look,’’ I said in this nice, even tone, ‘‘if something demanded your attention for only a few seconds, that’s all the killer would have needed to—’’

  ‘‘How many times do I have to tell you?’’ Harris inter

  rupted angrily. ‘‘No one got past me. No one!’’

  ‘‘Sorry. Just one last question, okay?’’

  ‘‘What is it?’’ he said, his manner making it clear that one was all I’d get.

  ‘‘Did you have to provide any special assistance of any kind that night? To an older person? Or someone in a wheelchair? Or—’’

  I could see that he was about to break in with another denial when suddenly he froze, his mouth hanging open and his skin rapidly losing its color.

  ‘‘What is it?’’

  Just then, a young couple entered the building, and Har

  ris held the door for them. When he turned back to me, the elderly doorman’s face was gray. ‘‘God help me,’’ he said softly, ‘‘I guess it could have happened when Mrs. Garvin came home.’’

  ‘‘When was that?’’ I asked gently. At that moment, I was

  not too pleased with myself for doing my job.

  ‘‘Around seven-thirty. I think it could have been a few minutes after the first Foster twin came in; only don’t hold me to it. But I do remember thinking how late it was for Mrs. Garvin; she usually gets in around six. Well,’’ he went on, nervously licking his lips, ‘‘Monday night, she pulled up in this big stretch limo—she never came home by limo be

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  fore—and the driver started unloading these two huge car

  tons from the trunk. I found out later her office was moving, and the cartons were filled with papers she was storing in her apartment for the time being. But that’s not here or there, is it? Anyway, what happened was one of the cartons got stuck in the trunk, and the driver started yanking at it. All of a sudden-like, the carton came loose and it caught the guy off balance. I thought for sure he was going to drop it, so I ran over to give him a hand. But by the time I got to the curb, everything was okay; he had a good grip on it.’’

  Harris paused for a second or two, then looked at me pleadingly. ‘‘All I did,’’ he said shakily, ‘‘was to run over to the limo—just a few yards away—and then turn right around and come back. So how long could I have been away from the door?’’

  And then, in a strangled voice, he answered the question

  himself: ‘‘Just long enough.’’

  Chapter 7

  Getting in touch with Peter wasn’t easy. First thing in the morning, I tried reaching him at the office number he’d given me. His secretary—or whoever it was who answered his phone—informed me that he’d taken a leave of absence. So I called him at home. I got the answering machine and left a message. Then I waited. And waited . . .

  At noon, I went out to keep an appointment in connec

  tion with one of the two other cases I was working on. And when I returned to the office an hour and a half later, I waited some more.

  It was close to four when Peter finally got back to me.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve been at the hospital all day, and I just now called home for my messages.’’

  ‘‘How is she?’’

  ‘‘About the same,’’ he answered. But there was a little lift in his voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘‘I was speak

  ing to her neurosurgeon today, though. And he says that every day she’s still alive, her chances go up. It’s Friday now—that’s four days since she was shot. And they didn’t even expect her to last through the first night.’’

  I wanted to respond with something positive to keep his spirits up, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility that at any moment the victim might take a turn for the worse. ‘‘She’s a real fighter,’’ I told him brightly, if a little cautiously.

  ‘‘She is, isn’t she?’’ Peter said with something like awe. And then he went on to talk about the one thing I’d been reluctant to even think about. ‘‘You know, the doctors say it’s still too early to determine the amount of brain damage. But the way I look at it, first, I want to know that it’s Mary Ann. And second, I want to see her out of that coma. After that, I can deal with whatever I have to when the time comes.’’

  I was very touched by Peter’s love and courage and that

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  almost childlike faith he seemed to have. Besides, who was I to break those rose-colored glasses of his? ‘‘Maybe there won’t be much damage,’’ I offered encouragingly.

  ‘‘That’s what I’m hoping.’’ A moment later, his tone changed. ‘‘Anyway, what did you want to grill me about today?’’ he asked, and I could hear the smile.

  ‘‘Look, suppose I meet you over by St. Catherine’s and we grab some dinner? We can talk then.’’

  I was certain Peter would expire of malnutrition if I didn’t see to it that he got some nourishment once in a while. But I was prepared for an uphill battle. I figured he’d try to beg off with the excuse that he didn’t want to leave the hospital or maybe that he just plain wasn’t hun

  gry, so I was both surprised and pleased when he said,

  ‘‘Sounds good. What time do you want to make it?’’

  I guess keeping a vigil can get pretty lonely.

  My taxi pulled up to the hospital’s main building at six on the button. Peter was waiting for me outside.

  The weather had turned bitter cold in the last hour or so, and the wind was howling shrilly. I conservatively put the wind-chill factor at minus fifty, at best. It was the kind of night I’d have loved to spend at home in my own apart

  ment, just sitting in front of the fireplace with a good book. If I had a fireplace, that is.

  My teeth were already beginning to chatter in the brief minute or two since I’d left the warmth of the cab. ‘‘It’s f-freezing out!’’ I told Peter. ‘‘Why didn’t you wait inside?’’

  ‘‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that fresh air’s healthy for you?’’ he responded, grinning.

  He wasn’t even wearing a hat or gloves, and it was an effort to restrain myself from lecturing him about it. But I recognized that the last thing Peter needed at this stage of his life was for me to play big sister again.

  ‘‘What kind of food would you like?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘You choose.’’

  ‘‘There’s this little Italian restaurant I keep passing. I’ve never eaten there, but it looks pretty nice. And it’s close.’’

  ‘‘C-c-close is good,’’ I said, my teeth clicking together like castanets.

  Laughing, Peter took my arm. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh since Ashtabula. ‘‘I can’t believe you! How can you possibly be cold?’’ he demanded. ‘‘Just look at

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  you! A coat almost all the way to the ground, a hat pulled way down over your ears and a scarf that’s up past your nose. It’s a wonder you’re getting any oxygen.’’

  He laughed again, and it was almost worth freezing my buns off to hear him like that. I said ‘‘almost.’’

  He was steering me around the corner. ‘‘It’s just a couple of doors down,’’ he let me know. ‘‘We’ll be there in three minutes.’’

  And we were.

  We walked into a lively and very noisy bar area; ‘‘happy hour’’ was obviously in full swing here. Adjacent to that room was the dining room, which was already pretty crowded even at such an early dinner hour. Fortunately, there was an empty table toward the back, where the peo

  ple were less happy and we’d actually be able to hear what each other had to say.

  As soon as our waiter came over, I ordered a glass of red wine to help me defrost. Peter ordered a beer. I could barely stand it: a cold beer on a night like this!

  After the waiter hurried away, Peter looked at me with this little smile. ‘‘Go!’’ he said.

  Well, I hate to have business interfere with a good meal. But this was definitely not the kind of place where you could put your agenda on hold until coffee and then, over three or four refills, sit around and discuss all the things you were here to discuss. Every table was occupied now, and a waiting line for dinner was already forming in the barroom. So I didn’t waste any time. ‘‘You knew that Mere

  dith and Larry Shields—her director—were going together,

  didn’t you?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, sure.’’

  ‘‘Well, did you also know they’d split up recently?’’

  ‘‘Didn’t I . . . you mean I didn’t tell you about that?’’

  Peter asked, blushing.

  ‘‘No, you didn’t.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’’ he said, slap

  ping his forehead with the palm of his hand. It’s a wonder I can remember my own name.’’

  ‘‘It’s understandable with all you’re going through,’’ I assured him. ‘‘Tell me what you know about the ar