Murder Can Ruin Your Looks

by Selma Eichler

  ing cough that absolutely ruined the impact of her wonder

  fully husky voice. I quickly accepted the invitation, literally falling into a chair.

  ‘‘I dropped off to sleep again,’’ she explained. ‘‘I think I’d better go and repair the damage.’’ With that, she re

  treated to the bathroom.

  While I was struggling to catch my breath, I glanced around the huge space that served as Collins’s living room, bedroom, and kitchen. The white brick walls were covered with photographs—many of them of the actress herself—

  along with playbills and other theater memorabilia. I would have liked a closer look, but that would have required lift

  ing myself out of the chair, which I was definitely not up to at the moment. I contented myself with taking an inven

  tory of the rest of the loft.

  The scarred wooden floor was bare (and in dire need of a sweeping, too). And there was surprisingly little furniture, a fact made even more apparent by the room’s impres

  sive dimensions.

  Hugging one wall was a dark blue sofa bed, now open and covered with rumpled white sheets topped with a dingy yellow blanket that was strewn with crumpled tissues. There was a large wicker wastebasket in front of the sofa, a sizable portion of its contents—mostly used tissues, from what I could see—overflowing onto the floor. Adjacent to the sofa was a battered wooden end table which hosted a tall, chipped, blue china lamp—and still more tissues. Completing this unattractive grouping was a single

  Queen Anne–style chair—which I was extremely grateful

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  to at present—upholstered in a grungy tweed that might have originally been beige but whose color was now any

  body’s guess.

  On the long wall opposite the sofa, there was only a small chrome and Formica kitchen table that stood in the corner along with two chrome chairs that had torn vinyl seats. A tiny Pullman kitchen with grimy, discolored fix

  tures was recessed into the short wall next to the table and chairs.

  I took a look behind me at the only other items in the place. In front of a large triple window at the far end of the loft was a shiny new exercise bike surrounded by five or six bulging cartons. The cartons had me wondering whether Ms. Collins was coming or going.

  The sound of footsteps interrupted my speculations, and I turned back around to face a much more presentable Lucille Collins.

  She had changed to a fresh, clean robe, and her long hair was pulled neatly back and tied with a ribbon. Her eyes seemed clearer, too. She’d even applied some lipstick and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a little something to her cheeks. Only the scarlet nose remained to attest to her debilitated state. Obviously, Collins had noticed I’d been staring at the cartons. Either that or she always felt that an explanation was necessary for new visitors. ‘‘I haven’t gotten around to unpacking yet,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Oh, did you just move in?’’

  ‘‘About eight months ago,’’ she answered without even blushing.

  There was no resistance when I suggested she relax while

  I got our lunch ready. ‘‘Thanks, I’d appreciate it; I feel like shit.’’ A loud honk into a crinkled tissue followed by a prolonged and wracking cough attested to the words. ‘‘I don’t know when I’ve had a worse cold,’’ she complained, crawling back into bed.

  From her horizontal position, she provided instructions on where everything could be found, and I went about heating the soup, putting up the teakettle, and setting the table. Then, while I was waiting for the water to boil, I attacked—over the mildest of protests from my hostess—

  what looked like a week’s worth of dirty dishes in the sink. But don’t give me credit for being a good Samaritan or anything. I only did it because, frankly, that greasy, food

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  encrusted mess had the potential to ruin my appetite. (And if you saw my apartment, you’d know that I’m not exactly a fanatic about cleanliness, either.)

  We sat down to lunch a few minutes later, and Collins managed to do justice to everything—including the strudel. (Anyone who could pack in food the way she did, I de

  cided, could have found the strength to rinse off a few dishes.)

  Anyway, I let the woman eat in peace, but after I’d poured us both a second cup of tea, her immunity was over.

  ‘‘Let’s talk about the night the twins were shot,’’ I said. Collins nodded.

  ‘‘What time did you get home?’’

  ‘‘After seven sometime. I can’t tell you just when.’’ With that, she began to cough. And cough. It was so intense and went on for so long that I started to get nervous.

  ‘‘Would you like some water?’’

  Shaking her head, she continued hacking away. By the time the cough subsided, the color of Collins’s face matched her nose to a T.

  ‘‘Have you seen a doctor?’’ I asked. I mean, it was possi

  ble the woman had TB or something.

  ‘‘Oh, no. I don’t need a doctor. I’m a lot better than I was,’’ she assured me. ‘‘But I hope I don’t give you anything.’’

  Amen, I thought fervently.

  ‘‘What else did you want to know?’’ Collins was saying, apparently attempting to get things moving again.

  I was happy to oblige. ‘‘You stayed in all evening?’’

  ‘‘Uh-huh. With a book. Just as I told you before.’’

  ‘‘Can anyone verify that?’’

  ‘‘Well, a friend called me a few minutes after ten. But I guess that’s too late to provide me with an alibi, isn’t it?’’

  Then, looking at me earnestly: ‘‘I had no reason to kill Meredith—much less her sister. Can’t you see that? After all, Meredith didn’t give herself that part.’’ Even when not in top mesmerizing form, those eyes of Collins’s were com

  pelling enough to swear to her sincerity.

  It was time I let her know that I knew. ‘‘I understand you and Larry Shields had been going together before he met Meredith,’’ I said meaningfully.

  ‘‘Yes, but it had actually been over for quite a while by that time. We just hadn’t bothered making it official.’’

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  ‘‘Were you surprised that Shields and Meredith got back

  together again after their breakup?’’

  ‘‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’’ Collins an

  swered flatly.

  ‘‘You don’t know that they split up for about a week?’’

  ‘‘No. And I’m sure I would have known about it if they had. Listen, Larry gets tied up in knots when one of his plays first goes into rehearsal. So maybe they didn’t see each other for a few days. Or a week. It’s the way he is.’’

  Then she added with this wistful little smile, ‘‘I should know, shouldn’t I?’’

  At that point, she began to cough again, even more vio

  lently than she had earlier. We sat at the table until the coughing stopped and she was able to swallow a couple of spoonfuls of cough medicine. After that, she went back to bed. I stayed around just long enough to clean up our lunch dishes.

  Walking down those four flights of stairs, I had plenty of time to think. And the first thing that occurred to me was that I hadn’t said anything about Shields and Meredith Fos

  ter breaking up when the play first went into rehearsal. It sounded very much to me as though Lucille Collins had been coached.

  You know, the woman was really something. I mean, for

  her to be so protective of the man who dumped her. Unless, of course, she was hoping to get him back.

  But what really got to me was that she actually expected me to believe she didn’t resent Meredith Foster one little bit for walking off with the part—and the guy—she wanted. (I didn’t give any credence to that junk about the relation

  ship with Shields
having cooled before Meredith came into the picture—at least, not as far as Collins was concerned.) Hey, if I accepted what Lucille Collins was trying to sell me, I’d have to regard her as some kind of saint. And I just couldn’t picture a saint living in such a dirty apartment. Chapter 13

  By the time I made it down to street level, I was bone tired. No doubt due to all that enforced exercise. So even though it wasn’t much after two-thirty, I figured I’d forget about going back to the office and knock off work early, for a change.

  There was no trouble at all getting a cab. It was an off hour; besides, the day was sunny and not too cold, unsea

  sonably warm for February, in fact. I was home by three and in bed ten minutes later, determined to take a nap before my seven o’clock dinner with Stuart. The alarm was set for four-thirty, which would give me plenty of time to get ready.

  I woke up with a start to the insistent ringing of the telephone.

  ‘‘Yo, sweet li’l baby,’’ a young male voice said. Unfortunately, I had not been anyone’s sweet li’l baby for quite a while, and I politely told Romeo as much. After we said our good-byes—or, at least, after I’d said mine—I looked over at the clock. It was five forty-five. God bless Romeo, whoever he was!

  I bolted out of bed, cursing myself for forgetting to pull out that little plug on the alarm clock.

  Well, there’d be no leisurely bubble bath tonight. I set

  tled for a quick shower and then set some kind of speed record for applying my makeup. Naturally, I wound up with even more smudges than usual under my eyes, and it took me longer to get through with my face than if I’d taken the time to do it right in the first place.

  I devoted the next fifteen minutes to fussing with my hair. But, for me, fifteen minutes wasn’t that terrible; I’ve been known to wrestle with this hair of mine—which defi

  nitely has a mind of its own—for close to an hour. Anyway, when I was satisfied that the results weren’t god-awful, I

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  let loose with half a dozen extremely liberal spritzes of extra-extra-hold. By the time I was finished, even a tornado couldn’t have coaxed a single strand out of place. Now I was ready to get dressed.

  I was planning on wearing this almost-new royal blue silk that the saleslady had insisted made me look practically sylphlike. Of course, I didn’t believe that for a minute. Still, I did love the dress.

  I stepped into it carefully, buttoned a couple of buttons, and checked myself out in the full-length mirror. As I stood there admiring my reflection, I saw it: a spot just below my left breast!

  It was only a small spot, really; I doubt that anyone would have noticed it. The trouble was, though, that I knew it was there. You see, I’ve got this thing about neatness—

  when it comes to personal grooming, that is. I guess it’s because of my weight. I mean, there’s nothing I can do about someone referring to me as fat (although I much prefer ‘‘full figured’’ or ‘‘well rounded’’ or even ‘‘amply proportioned’’). But I refuse to give anyone a reason for calling me fat and sloppy.

  Well, I did have another choice—the pale gray wool. Which was really very pretty and very appropriate. But which went on over my head.

  I can’t tell you how slowly and painstakingly I eased myself into that dress. And when I was through, there wasn’t a wisp of hair out of place. There was an entire section standing straight on end! And, what was worse, I couldn’t even run a comb through that sticky mess!

  By then it was ten of seven, so I knew Stuart—who’s ridiculously prompt—would already have left the office. I called the restaurant with the message for him that I’d be a little late. Which was definitely a case of optimism tri

  umphing over experience.

  After that, I got out my wig and was relieved to find that it was actually quite presentable. I only had to expend ten minutes or so of really concerted effort to make it look almost as good as it had when I’d taken it out of the closet. When I finally left the apartment, it was past seven-thirty. And I was in so much of a hurry I forgot to put on the new gold-plated earrings with the faux pearl stones that I’d bought especially for the occasion.

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  Ennio and Michael’s, Ellen’s excellent recommendation, is all the way downtown in Greenwich Village, so I showed up more than an hour late. Which really unnerved me. But

  in spite of that, it turned out to be a really lovely evening. The restaurant itself was attractive and comfortable. And I can say the same about Stuart. Not only is he tall and blond and good-looking and one of the most considerate people you’d ever want to meet, he’s also great company. I’m really amazed that no one’s snapped him up in all this time since his divorce. (But don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.)

  We started off by toasting his birthday with a very nice burgundy. (Stuart rarely indulges in anything alcoholic, but he finally gave in to my completely spurious argument that no one over eighteen has any business celebrating a birth

  day without a good bottle of wine.) With the wine, we ordered some fried zucchini, and it was as crispy and deli

  cious as Ellen had assured me it would be. My entreé was the veal Sorrentino, which Ellen had just about insisted I try, while Stuart had the veal parmigiana, and we were both extremely pleased with our choices.

  As always with Stuart, conversation was easy and ani

  mated. He didn’t even mention my getting my papers to

  gether so he could start on my taxes, something he’d been after me about practically since the first of the year. (Maybe he figured it was unsportsmanlike to badger someone who’s

  picking up the tab for your birthday dinner.) Anyway, we were having this heated argument about a best-selling mys

  tery we’d both read recently. I was going on and on about how much I’d enjoyed it, while Stuart was contending that it was highly overrated. That discussion ended abruptly when he proclaimed, not too softly and with a straight face, ‘‘You know, it doesn’t make you an authority on murder just be

  cause you’ve got one or two of your own under your belt.’’

  The woman at the next table, who had been listening intently to our conversation (and don’t ask me why; it wasn’t all that interesting), stared at me with an expression I can’t possibly describe but which sent Stuart and me into prolonged spasms of laughter.

  When we’d both sufficiently recovered, Stuart said, ‘‘That reminds me. You haven’t told me about this new case of yours.’’

  I filled him in, very briefly, and when I was through, he

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  whistled softly under his breath. ‘‘You’ve sure got yourself a weird one this time,’’ he remarked.

  Since I really needed a break from things, even if it was only for a few hours, I wasn’t anxious to get into any big dis

  cussions just then. So when he started to comment further, I quickly asked—because I couldn’t think of anything else to say—‘‘Have you been to any good movies lately?’’ The minute it was out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe I’d said it. I mean, talk about inane—to say nothing of obvious—remarks!

  I began to apologize, but Stuart cut me off. ‘‘Listen, I know how you feel. You don’t hear me talking about Schedule Cs tonight, do you? But I would like to say one thing, if it’s okay.’’ He was looking at me for permission, and I felt like a prize jackass.

  ‘‘Please. Go ahead.’’

  ‘‘I was just wondering if you ever checked out your cli

  ent’s alibi.’’

  Peter’s? If Stuart had spent just two minutes talking to Peter, he couldn’t possibly have even thought of anything like that! And I was about to say as much, but just then an acquaintance of Stuart’s walked in and came over to the table to say hello. And right after that, we got busy with a couple of very generous portions of tar
tuffo.

  When we’d done justice to the desserts, I suggested we stop off somewhere for a drink. We found a quiet little bar a couple of blocks from the restaurant, where I had a B&B and I could not dissuade Stuart—birthday or no birthday—from reverting back to his designer water. We spent almost an hour in the place, doing a lot more talking than drinking. But the subject of Peter’s alibi didn’t come up again. Before too much time would pass, however,

  I’d remember my friend’s words. And wish I’d taken them seriously.

  Going home, Stuart and I shared a cab uptown. And all the way over to my apartment, I kept wondering if I should invite him in, what I’d say if he turned me down, and whether it would even be wise to try to get things back to the way they used to be. . . .

  Suddenly we were in front of my building, and Stuart was telling me he’d see me upstairs. Then, with his hand on the door handle, he turned back to the driver. ‘‘Wait for me,’’ he instructed. ‘‘I’ll be right down.’’

  And that was the end of that.

  Chapter 14

  Claire Josephs’s two-bedroom condo was on the sixth floor, two floors above the twins’. The apartment had very little furniture—not much more, in fact, than Lucille Collins’s loft. But the few items that were here looked attractive and appeared—to me, anyway—to be of really good quality. Claire, a pretty, obviously harried blonde in her twenties, had been anxious to explain the austere surroundings. ‘‘We spent so much on the place—it was much more than we could afford, actually—that we had practically nothing left for furniture. So we’re filling in one or two pieces at a time.’’

  We were sitting at the kitchen table, and Claire had just poured us some coffee when she warned me that her nap

  ping son might wake up at any moment. ‘‘He usually sleeps for an hour at least, but these last couple of days . . .’’

  Looking a lot like someone condemned to purgatory, she shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘‘Still that infection?’’ I asked, trying to sound sympa

  thetic but cringing inwardly at the remembrance of the last earful I’d had of little whatever-his-name-was.

  ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ Claire replied, looking anxious never