Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (35 page)

lowing Monday, the latest.’’

‘‘Damn!’’

‘‘Look, hotshot, you wouldn’t want anything to go wrong

would you? It all has to be worked out so every contingen

cy’s covered.’’

‘‘Yes, but—’’

‘‘And anyway, I thought you only took this case to find out if your client’s fianceé was dead or alive. And there’s a good chance you’ll have your answer on Monday when

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that jewelry woman gets back from wherever the hell she’s been for so long. So concentrate on that in the meantime, why don’t you? I’ll talk to you as soon as I get the word. Okay?’’

I managed a grudging okay. What choice did I have?

Being one of the most impatient people I know, I did not take the postponement of my plan in particularly good grace. So I wasn’t exactly Little Mary Sunshine around the office that day. In fact, at eleven o’clock or so, Jackie sug

gested I shut my door so no one else would have to be subjected to me. I went along, since the only person who deserved to come within a hundred feet of me just then was Will Fitzgerald, and he was on vacation. (And speaking of Fitzgerald, did I mention that according to office dish he was definitely on his way out? Something to do with a cli

ent’s wife and an elevator, I heard. Which is another one of those good news/bad news things. I mean—like any true

Scorpio—I would have enjoyed his troubles a whole lot more if I could have contributed a little something to them.)

At any rate, by late afternoon, my mood had improved considerably. After all, it was just over a week, at the out

side, until we’d finally have our killer. Besides, as Fielding said, in three days Charlotte Bromley would be back. And I was feeling pretty optimistic about her ability to tell us who that ring belonged to.

Three
more
days
and
we’ll
know,
I kept repeating to my

self.
Only
three
more
days
. . . . Chapter 34

I called Ellen late Friday night and somehow performed the almost impossible feat of keeping my mouth shut about solving the case. I was reserving that for when I saw her in person. And not only because I knew she’d be bombard

ing me with a million questions, either, but—and I admit this was the main reason—because, after all the grief, I felt entitled to do a little showing off at this point. Which, of course, is a lot more effective face-to-face—especially when you’ve got the world’s best audience.

‘‘There are four absolutely gorgeous veal chops in my freezer,’’ I said enticingly. ‘‘So if you don’t have anything better to do tomorrow night, how about coming over for dinner?’’

‘‘Oh, I wish I could, but I already made plans with Gin

ger—you know, in my building? I’m meeting her after work, and we’re going to grab some deli and take in a movie. Why don’t you join us?’’

I can’t tell you how let down I felt. Or how hard I tried not to show it. ‘‘Thanks, but I think I may finally keep a promise to myself and do a wash. My laundry doesn’t even

fit in the hamper anymore; if I ignore it much longer, it could take over the whole apartment.’’

‘‘I can make it Sunday,’’ Ellen offered.

Well, on Sunday I was the one with the plans. So it was finally decided that Ellen would come over on Monday night after work. And when I thought about it, I realized that—as eager as I was to give her my news—Monday was actually a better idea, anyway. By then, there was a good chance Charlotte Bromley would have helped us unravel the mystery of the twins’ identities.

The way things worked out, though, I had more to tell Ellen on Monday than I could possibly have imagined. And for that, I could thank my friend Pat Martucci’s libido.

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Eichler

*

*

*

All of Saturday morning, I was on edge. Due, I’m sure, to anxiety about both my plot for trapping the killer and Bromley’s homecoming. At a little after twelve, I forced myself to get out of the apartment.

In spite of attempting to resist the temptation every inch of the way, I managed to wind up on a bus headed in the direction of Bloomingdale’s. With my luck, they were hav

ing this absolutely wonderful sale on shoes there, and I picked up a beautiful pair of brown leather pumps—which I really
did
need—for a rock-bottom price. Which led to my paying an outrageous amount for the only bag in the whole place that even came close to matching them. Well, I’d blown so much money already, I might just as well go all the way. So I capped off the day by treating myself to dinner at a French restaurant not far from the store, where I indulged in all of my favorite things: escar

got, Caesar salad, duck a` l’orange with wild rice, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, and a truly unforgettable chocolate mousse. I left there maybe five pounds heavier and more than sixty dollars lighter.

In bed that night, I kept tossing and turning. I couldn’t stop thinking about the meeting with Bromley and what she might be able to tell us about the ring. I finally put on the television around two, but all I could find at that hour were infomercials. I fell asleep a long time afterward in the middle of the one where you’re practically guaranteed you’ll become a millionaire selling real estate by following a few simple steps. . . .

The next morning, I was really dragged out. But I’d promised my neighbor Harriet I’d go shopping with her on

the Lower East Side that day. Her nephew was getting married in only two weeks, and she hadn’t been able to find a dress yet. There was really no way I could disappoint her. Now, Harriet Gould and I have lived across the hall from

each other for three years. And I like her a lot. But she’s the world’s most infuriating shopper. At the second store we walked into, she found a pale turquoise crepe she loved. It was a great fit, and she couldn’t get over how
absolutely
perfect
it would be for the wedding. ‘‘But I can’t just grab the very first thing I put on,’’ she decided.

Three and a half hours, a dozen dresses, and four very tired feet later, she came to the realization that she
had
to

MURDER
CAN
RUIN
YOUR
LOOKS

213

have the turquoise crepe. So we rushed back to the store, only to find the dress had been sold. They would
try
to special order it on Monday, they told my tearful friend. It was three-thirty when I finally got home, and by then I was barely ambulatory. Pat Martucci and I were supposed to be having dinner together that night, and I really didn’t see how I’d be able to make it. But after an hour’s nap followed by a brisk shower (I know I would have dozed off and drowned if I’d attempted a bubble bath), I came more or less alive again.

We were to meet at the restaurant at 6:45. But at 6:15, just as I was buttoning my coat, the phone rang.

‘‘You’re going to kill me,’’ Pat said.

‘‘Why? What’s up?’’

‘‘Ahhh, the thing is, I met the most
interesting
man yes

terday—Paul Castle, his name is. He was visiting his sister, who lives in my building, and we started talking in the lobby, and then he asked for my number. Anyway, we just hung up; he phoned to tell me a friend of his called a few minutes ago to offer him these two tickets to
Crazy
for
You
for tonight. And, well, he asked if I was free, and I said I was.’’

There was a brief pause for a change of tone before Pat added imploringly, ‘‘Don’t be angry, Dez. I know it wasn’t the right thing to do, but it just popped out. It isn’t the show; you
know
that. I’d never break a date with you to go to a show. As a matter of fact, I saw
Crazy
for
You
with my ex a week after it opened, and I didn’t even like it that much. Honestly. But what I
do
like is Paul Castle. And, uh, I can’t seem to help it, I’m fuckin’ mush when it comes to an attractive man.’’ This was followed by a selfconscious little giggle, and then Pat asked in this cloying, kittenish voice that made me want to gag, ‘‘You mad at me?’’

Well, considering how down in the dumps she’d been lately, I wouldn’t have been much of a friend if I hadn’t let her off the hook. I mean, for Pat to be without a man is almost like someone else being without food or water; there’s really a serious question about how long she’d man

age to survive.

‘‘No, I’m not mad at you,’’ I told her. ‘‘Actually, I had a pretty tiring day, so I’m probably better off just staying home and taking it easy.’’

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Selma
Eichler

‘‘That’s what I
thought
. I remembered your mentioning you had to go shopping with your friend today, so I figured you were probably exhausted anyway and that—’’

I cut her short. Any minute now, she’d convince herself that concern for my well-being was her main reason for canceling. Which was where I got off. ‘‘Look, have a won

derful time,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’’

The fact is, it was really just as well Pat had made other plans. The thought of getting into my bathrobe and stretch

ing out on the sofa was suddenly very appealing to me. I began unbuttoning my coat. But when I came to the last button, I stood there for a minute, thinking.
I
wonder
. . . A moment later, I walked over to the phone. I had my hand on the receiver, then pulled it away. Suppose I was right and the woman
was
home. If I called, I’d be giving her the opportunity to say she was too tired or too busy or too something else to see me. No, better to just take my chances and hop a cab over there.

I could picture Charlotte Bromley sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, right now. After all, the message on the answering machine said she’d be back on the six

teenth—tomorrow. Well, I usually tell people I’ll be home the day after
I’m
due to return, especially if there’s a possi

bility I won’t be getting in until late.

On the other hand, though, I was probably kidding my

self—projecting my idiosyncrasy onto Bromley because I was so anxious for her to be there tonight. The message did specify the sixteenth, and that’s probably just when she’d be coming back. So why schlep all the way downtown—espe

cially when I was this tired? I mean, after waiting all these weeks, what was the big deal about waiting one more day?

I undid the last coat button. I even got as far as slipping one arm out of its sleeve before changing my mind again. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do, I thought with a smidgen of self-pity. And I was really dying to hear what she had to say. So why didn’t I just go down there and see whether she was in or not? What did I have to lose?

Determinedly, I put the arm back in the sleeve and redid the buttons.

Suddenly I was sure I’d find Bromley home and that she’d know about the ring.

I could feel it in my bones.

Chapter 35

The taxi dropped me off in front of a faded yellow brick apartment house. It was an old building and quite shabby. But the architecture, with its rounded corners, high double and triple windows, and imposing recessed entranceway, suggested that years back this must have been a pretty good address.

The night was unusually cold—more like February than mid-March—and I was shivering even more than usual when I entered the good-sized vestibule. For some reason, it popped into my head then that today was March fif

teenth—the Ides of March. I shivered again. But this time it had nothing to do with the weather.

Just to the left of the door was the tenant listing. Brom

ley’s entry was in black block letters engraved on a silver metal plate. It read C. BROMLEY, JEWELRY AS ART. I pushed the buzzer next to the nameplate and waited nervously. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I was about to give up and leave when the door opened behind me and a chill wind rushed in, whipping my coat around my legs.

Turning around, I found myself staring into the face of the last person on earth I wanted to see.

‘‘I have a gun in my pocket,’’ the killer informed me in a low, even voice. ‘‘And I want you to stand here quietly; don’t even move a muscle. If you do exactly what I tell you, you’ll be fine.’’

Bullshit!
I
am
in
a
whole
lot
of
trouble,
I thought, even as I dutifully obeyed the instructions. The perp was right beside me now, jamming something into my ribs. I didn’t have to look down to know the gun was no longer in any pocket. (My own thirty-two, of course, was exactly where it would do me no good at all: in my bedroom at the bot