hopefully.
‘‘The police more or less ruled out that possibility.’’
‘‘This is all so . . . so . . . unbelievable, ’’ she said, sniffling.
‘‘I still can’t believe it happened.’’ That called for another bunch of tissues.
I gave her a little time to blow her nose before I asked,
‘‘Would you happen to know if either of them had any other close friends?’’
‘‘Well, there’s Peter, of course. Poor guy. I’ve been talk
ing to him regularly to find out how . . . uh . . . she’s doing in the hospital. He doesn’t even sound like the same per
son anymore.’’
‘‘Anyone else?’’
‘‘That director boyfriend of Meredith’s—Larry some
body; I met him once at the apartment. They were also pretty friendly with a couple of people in the building. Some guy down the hall—I’m positive he’s gay—and a woman who lives upstairs. I don’t remember his name, but hers is Claire. Now, let me think, what was the last name?’’
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
71
‘‘I was able to supply it, courtesy of Peter’s list. Josephs. Claire Josephs.’’
‘‘That’s it.’’
‘‘What about Roger, Mary Ann’s ex-fiance´?’’
Lydia’s eyes flew open. ‘‘This is the first I’ve heard that there was an ex-fiance´.’’
She left a few minutes—and a few more tissues—later. I got one last view of the Brodsky rear end before she put on her coat.
The sight, a living reminder of my own ample dimen
sions, really unnerved me. As soon as she walked out, I headed straight for the freezer. I wasn’t myself again until my second portion of Haägen-Dazs Macadamia Brittle. Peter called around eight, just as I was finishing dinner.
‘‘How did you make out at the emergency room last night?’’ he asked.
‘‘Nothing,’’ I said, briefly explaining what had happened to the girls’ clothing.
‘‘I’ve been putting off this call all day,’’ he confessed.
‘‘Even though I kept checking my machine and telling my
self that if you had any news, good or bad, you’d have left a message.’’
‘‘You know I’d have gotten in touch with you if I had anything to report,’’ I verified.
‘‘Have you spoken to Eric yet?’’
‘‘Not yet. I tried him this morning and again around six, but he wasn’t in his room.’’
‘‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to reach any of the friends.’’
‘‘As a matter of fact, Lydia Brodsky was here this afternoon.’’
‘‘Did you find out anything?’’
‘‘I can’t really tell what I found out at this point. Cer
tainly nothing dramatic. She mentioned, though, that you’d asked Mary Ann to join you and a friend for dinner that night.’’
‘‘Uh-huh. My old college roommate was in from Maine. But Mary Ann had already made these arrangements with Lydia.’’ Then he added poignantly, ‘‘You know, when the police told me about her being shot in her apartment like that, I thought at first that they’d made a mistake, that it
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Selma Eichler
wasn’t Mary Ann at all. I was sure she wasn’t even home when it . . . happened.’’
‘‘So you and your friend had dinner, just the two of you?’’ I asked quickly, unwilling to let him dwell on that ultimately tragic change of plans.
‘‘Right.’’ There was a pause before he whispered:
‘‘Unfortunately.’’
‘‘Peter, do you have any idea if Mary Ann told anyone—
besides you, I mean—about making that date with Lydia?’’
‘‘Just Eric, I think. He wanted to get together with her that night, too. But when she couldn’t make it, they decided to have lunch on Tuesday.’’
Now, that was interesting. . . .
‘‘Listen, Desiree,’’ Peter was saying, ‘‘I haven’t had any
thing to eat all day. And if I don’t grab a bite soon, I’m going to start chewing on the telephone wire.’’
‘‘Oh, then I won’t keep you.’’ But, of course, he didn’t get away that easily. ‘‘Are you calling
‘‘The police more or less ruled out that possibility.’’
‘‘This is all so . . . so . . . unbelievable, ’’ she said, sniffling.
‘‘I still can’t believe it happened.’’ That called for another bunch of tissues.
I gave her a little time to blow her nose before I asked,
‘‘Would you happen to know if either of them had any other close friends?’’
‘‘Well, there’s Peter, of course. Poor guy. I’ve been talk
ing to him regularly to find out how . . . uh . . . she’s doing in the hospital. He doesn’t even sound like the same per
son anymore.’’
‘‘Anyone else?’’
‘‘That director boyfriend of Meredith’s—Larry some
body; I met him once at the apartment. They were also pretty friendly with a couple of people in the building. Some guy down the hall—I’m positive he’s gay—and a woman who lives upstairs. I don’t remember his name, but hers is Claire. Now, let me think, what was the last name?’’
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
71
‘‘I was able to supply it, courtesy of Peter’s list. Josephs. Claire Josephs.’’
‘‘That’s it.’’
‘‘What about Roger, Mary Ann’s ex-fiance´?’’
Lydia’s eyes flew open. ‘‘This is the first I’ve heard that there was an ex-fiance´.’’
She left a few minutes—and a few more tissues—later. I got one last view of the Brodsky rear end before she put on her coat.
The sight, a living reminder of my own ample dimen
sions, really unnerved me. As soon as she walked out, I headed straight for the freezer. I wasn’t myself again until my second portion of Haägen-Dazs Macadamia Brittle. Peter called around eight, just as I was finishing dinner.
‘‘How did you make out at the emergency room last night?’’ he asked.
‘‘Nothing,’’ I said, briefly explaining what had happened to the girls’ clothing.
‘‘I’ve been putting off this call all day,’’ he confessed.
‘‘Even though I kept checking my machine and telling my
self that if you had any news, good or bad, you’d have left a message.’’
‘‘You know I’d have gotten in touch with you if I had anything to report,’’ I verified.
‘‘Have you spoken to Eric yet?’’
‘‘Not yet. I tried him this morning and again around six, but he wasn’t in his room.’’
‘‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to reach any of the friends.’’
‘‘As a matter of fact, Lydia Brodsky was here this afternoon.’’
‘‘Did you find out anything?’’
‘‘I can’t really tell what I found out at this point. Cer
tainly nothing dramatic. She mentioned, though, that you’d asked Mary Ann to join you and a friend for dinner that night.’’
‘‘Uh-huh. My old college roommate was in from Maine. But Mary Ann had already made these arrangements with Lydia.’’ Then he added poignantly, ‘‘You know, when the police told me about her being shot in her apartment like that, I thought at first that they’d made a mistake, that it
72
Selma Eichler
wasn’t Mary Ann at all. I was sure she wasn’t even home when it . . . happened.’’
‘‘So you and your friend had dinner, just the two of you?’’ I asked quickly, unwilling to let him dwell on that ultimately tragic change of plans.
‘‘Right.’’ There was a pause before he whispered:
‘‘Unfortunately.’’
‘‘Peter, do you have any idea if Mary Ann told anyone—
besides you, I mean—about making that date with Lydia?’’
‘‘Just Eric, I think. He wanted to get together with her that night, too. But when she couldn’t make it, they decided to have lunch on Tuesday.’’
Now, that was interesting. . . .
‘‘Listen, Desiree,’’ Peter was saying, ‘‘I haven’t had any
thing to eat all day. And if I don’t grab a bite soon, I’m going to start chewing on the telephone wire.’’
‘‘Oh, then I won’t keep you.’’ But, of course, he didn’t get away that easily. ‘‘Are you calling
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