Free Murder Can Ruin Your Looks by Selma Eichler

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