Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  At any rate, now I had to rush like crazy to make myself even semipresentable, and rushing is definitely not in my nature. By three-fifteen, however, I’d made it all the way to the door. But then, when I had one foot in the hall, the telephone rang.

  Forget it, I told myself, you’re late enough. Whoever it is will leave a message.

  But, as I’m sure you can appreciate, for a seriously nosy person this is a pretty impossible dictate to comply with. And I whirled around and hurried back to the phone.

  It was John Lander.

  “I’m so glad I caught you, Desiree. You’re a very hard woman to reach, do you know that? Listen, I hope you don’t mind my contacting you at home.”

  “No, of course not; that’s why I gave you the number. Is anything wrong?”

  John didn’t answer the question directly. “I couldn’t say anything in front of my wife—she has a tendency to overreact—” he told me, “but there’s a matter you ought to be aware of, and you and I should get together again as soon as possible to discuss it. Would it be at all convenient for you to meet me for coffee or a drink or something in about an hour?”

  “I was just on my way to Shawna Riley’s. She’s expecting me.”

  “I realize this is very short notice,” John apologized. “I did try you at your office at around five yesterday—that was the earliest I was able to break away from Trudie for a few minutes—but you’d already left for the day. Then I called again last night. I even gave it a shot this morning.”

  “This morning?” But almost instantly I remembered that quick trip to the deli. Or he might have attempted to get me when I was showering. “Oh, that’s right. I was out for a short while. But why didn’t you ever leave word so I could get back to you?”

  “Because that’s what I was afraid of: your getting back to me. I was calling from home all those times—I’m at work now—and I was concerned about Trudie’s picking up if she heard the telephone ring. But listen, when are you supposed to be at Shawna’s?”

  Automatically, I glanced at my watch. Following which I gulped. “At three-thirty.”

  “I’m really sorry. I’ve made you late, haven’t I?”

  “Actually, it wasn’t you; I made me late. But in a way that’s a good thing. If I’d left here when I should have, you would have missed me again.”

  “Can we have our talk after your appointment?”

  “Absolutely. I should be free by five, the latest.”

  “I’ll wait for you in front of Shawna’s building.”

  Now, there’s nothing like trying to pump information out of someone you’ve antagonized. So rather than just march into the twin’s apartment at four o’clock or so, I figured it might be advisable to forewarn her that I’d been detained.

  “Ms. Riley?” I said when she answered the phone. “It’s Desiree Shapiro. I’ve been held up, and I hope—”

  “Held up!” The next few sentences ran together. “Oh, my goodness. Are you all right? Were you hurt?”

  You’ll never know how tempted I was to go along with this, but I like to think of myself as a basically truthful person—except, that is, in those rare instances when I’m absolutely forced to lie.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” I admitted. “It’s just that something came up . . . uh, something of a personal nature.”

  “A personal nature?” Shawna echoed, perhaps not even conscious that she was doing it.

  “It’s . . . it’s my aunt. I was at her place when she was suddenly taken ill, and I had to rush her to emergency.” (Look, some sort of explanation seemed to be expected. And I couldn’t see where Joan Crawford would win me any points with the girl. So, practically speaking, I was being forced to lie.)

  “Is it anything serious?—with your aunt, I mean.”

  “Oh, no. She’ll be fine, and thanks for asking. She just had . . . indigestion.” It was the best I could conjure up on such short notice. And then, aware that the tale cried out for embellishment, I added tremulously, “But it was very scary. I thought initially that it might be a heart attack. I pleaded with my aunt to let me call 9-1-1, but Aunt Grace wouldn’t even hear of it.” (And, no, I don’t really have an aunt Grace.)

  “Well, all’s well that ends well, they say.”

  “Yes. Anyway, I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you too much. I can be over in about twenty minutes, traffic permitting.”

  “No problem,” Shawna said solicitously. “And please. Don’t hurry. You’ve been through enough today.”

  Chapter 7

  Thank goodness for Mohammed—the cab driver, not the prophet.

  I know Shawna had instructed me to take my time, but I could see where her patience with my travails might wear thin if I were to get tied up in traffic now. And this afternoon the streets appeared to be even more jam-packed than usual. Or maybe it was just my anxiety that was making this assessment.

  At any rate, Mohammed proved to be some sort of wizard of the wheel. I mean, he wove in and out between those cars like he was threading a needle. Not only that, he managed to beat out one red light after another (although in a few instances this was a questionable call). And if for a good part of the ride my eyes were scrunched shut, my heart was around my ankles, and there was a slight problem with my breathing, well, it was worth it to pull up in front of Shawna Riley’s apartment house in a mere fifteen minutes.

  I figured the girl framed in the doorway to be about eighteen—I later found out she was a couple of months shy of her twenty-sixth birthday. Small and fragile-looking, with fair skin, enormous blue eyes, and thick, dark lashes, she immediately brought to mind a porcelain doll.

  She eyed me somewhat incredulously. Here we go again! I warned myself, bristling.

  “Ms. Shapiro?”

  “Yes, but I hope you’ll call me Desiree.”

  She nodded. “I will.” And now two parallel lines materialized between her eyes, and her kewpie-doll lips puckered for an instant. “I have to tell you that you’re not at all what I expected.”

  No, you don’t—have to tell me, that is. You’ve made it very apparent. I said this in a decidedly icy tone—only not aloud.

  “I suppose I go to too many movies,” Shawna confessed with a self-conscious little titter. “But I thought I’d be seeing Kathleen Turner on my doorstep. Not really her, of course”—another titter—“but a reasonable facsimile, anyway.” Then suddenly aware that she’d kept me standing outside in the hall for this not overly complimentary appraisal, she flung the door open wide. “Oh, please come in. Sometimes my manners aren’t what they should be.”

  She led me into a good-sized living room strikingly decorated in deep wine, green, and pink, with white accents. The elegant Queen Anne-style furnishings looked well made and costly—particularly the lacquered credenza between the windows and the graceful mahogany desk in the corner. But whether any of the pieces were the real thing or just expensive reproductions, I hadn’t a clue.

  I sank into the plush green sofa, with Shawna opting for the green-and-pale-pink-striped chair at right angles to it.

  I’d intended to begin with my always-welcome—although almost never truthful—promise to be brief. But Shawna preempted my opening spiel. “You want to know what I can tell you concerning that shooting incident with John, right?”

  “Right. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him? A person with a grudge of some sort, for example. Or possibly someone he had an argument with—no matter how trivial.”

  She shook her head. “Scott—that’s my brother—and I have very little contact with John. We’re only in his company four or five times a year at most, when all of us get together at my uncle Victor’s.”

  “Well, it was worth a try,” I told her with a rueful little smile. “About your uncle, though . . . I imagine you must have been pretty surprised at the terms of his will.”

  “Yes and no. It made sense that Edward would be his principal heir. Uncle Victor raised him, you know. At first, though, I did
find it weird that he would set up an order of succession like that, particularly since it was so unlikely he’d outlive any of us. But look what’s happened in just the last couple of weeks.”

  “You don’t appear to be very disturbed by the fact that in all probability you won’t be sharing in the estate. Or anyhow, not to any great extent.”

  “I’m not,” Shawna maintained, the soft voice taking on a new firmness. “Listen, my dad died a few years ago, and he was an extremely successful attorney who was still more successful in the stock market. He left almost everything to my mother, and Scott and I are Mother’s sole heirs.”

  I didn’t know quite what to say to a girl who was talking about inheriting from an apparently still-breathing parent. So I dragged out the always dependable, “I see.”

  “Unfortunately,” she went on, “I don’t believe we’ll have that long to wait, either. My mother is in very poor health—emphysema, along with a bad heart. Not that I can even think about losing Mother.” No, not much, I interjected silently. “In fact, I’ve just upset myself terribly by even bringing it up.” And she wiped an imaginary tear from her left eye.

  Well, I learned a long time ago that having plenty of money doesn’t stop too many people from wanting to get their hands on even more money. But I prevailed upon myself to refrain from making any comment to this effect.

  I suppose I should also tell you that in view of how sympathetic she was with regard to my aunt Grace’s unfortunate digestive problem, I’d been rather favorably disposed toward Shawna Riley from the outset. But with her practically dancing on her mother’s grave just now—and with poor Mom not even in it yet—my opinion of her had altered considerably.

  I chose my next words carefully. “It appears evident that you have no motive for disposing of John, Ms. Riley. But just for my records, I’d appreciate your filling me in on where you were at eleven-thirty the night he was shot at. That was this past Monday.”

  The girl’s gorgeous blue eyes were fixed unblinkingly on my face, and for a moment I visualized David Hearn’s also-gorgeous blue eyes. I wondered idly how many other members of the family had been similarly blessed. But then I reminded myself that Shawna and David weren’t even related.

  “As you yourself just said,” she retorted, “I have no reason to want John out of the way. So what I was doing that evening is immaterial, isn’t it?”

  “Are you saying that you prefer not to divulge your whereabouts?”

  “You misunderstood me. I have no problem telling you where I was. I just resent being regarded as a murder suspect, that’s all.”

  “I never meant to imply that you were, honestly. I thought I’d made that clear.”

  She kept me waiting for a few seconds before responding, and I’m certain this was intended to cause me to squirm a little. “All right. I was here—sleeping. Weekdays I’m in bed by eleven, if not before, since I have to start getting ready for work at six.”

  It was painful for me to even contemplate beginning my day then. Listen, I was still throwing bouquets at myself for waking up at eight that morning. (Keep in mind that it was a Saturday.) But six o’clock? And on a regular basis? If I were in that situation (God forbid!), it wouldn’t take long before the only way you could induce me to leave my bed at that hour would be to set it on fire. “I hope it’s a good job,” I remarked.

  “I hope so, too, but it’ll take a while to find out. My best friend owns an employment agency upstate, and I recently became a partner.”

  “Well, much good luck.” I pulled myself up a little straighter now in a vain attempt to strengthen my backbone. “Umm, I also have to talk to you about something else,” I forced myself to say. “Where were you . . . uh . . . the night your cousin Edward was killed? That was at eight o’clock on—”

  “I know when it was, and I already spoke to the police about that,” Shawna snapped. “I was at Scott’s from six-thirty until almost ten. He made dinner for me that evening. A belated celebration of my new business venture.”

  “Is he a good cook—your brother?” I asked conversationally, trying to put her in a more amiable mood. Which, I was aware, was a definite must if there was any chance of her tolerating my presence for even a few minutes longer.

  “Wonderful—the best.” She said it adamantly.

  “I think that men, as a rule, are better cooks than women, don’t you agree? I myself love to mess around in the kitchen, but I can’t say the results leave my friends begging for seconds that often.” (This was a big, fat lie. To be honest, I prepare a mean meal.)

  “I’m sure you’re more at home over a hot stove than I am. I’ve been trying for years to learn how to scramble an egg,” Shawna informed me, chuckling at her little joke.

  “What did your brother serve for this celebratory dinner, anyway?” I inquired lightly.

  “Let me think.” But it took only a couple of seconds for her to recall the fare. “I remember. The appetizer was stuffed clams oreganato. Following this, we had cream of wild mushroom soup. And after that, a humongous salad. Next came the most wonderful veal dish—I’m not sure just what it’s called. Oh, yes, Scott served noodles with the veal. And then for dessert we had one of his specialties—crème brûlée. My brother does an absolutely sensational crème brûlée. And—”

  Laughing, I held up my hand. “Stop! You’re making me salivate.”

  Shawna smiled at this, which led me to assume that it might not be a bad time to slip in another question or two. “Did anyone happen to call you at your brother’s that night?”

  “The phone didn’t even ring,” she responded irritably.

  “I’m sorry, but I had to ask. Uh, I’m curious about something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you know why you and Scott—and not David Hearn—are in line to inherit after John?”

  “I suppose it’s because we’ve kept in more frequent contact with my uncle over the years—David practically divorced him once he went off to college. And who do you think sprang for that ingrate’s education in the first place? It was Uncle Victor, of course.” She paused for a moment before adding thoughtfully, “Actually, if he put a member of that family in his will, I’d have expected it to be David’s mother Charlotte, who’s his niece. The truth is, though, the woman’s an enabler. Her husband’s an inveterate gambler, and she just stands by while he proceeds to get rid of every penny he makes. Not that he makes that much. He sells computers, and from what I understand, he’s not too great a salesman. Anyway, I don’t think my uncle wanted to give Clark—David’s father—access to anything more he could piss away. I presume that’s why David’s in the will instead of Charlotte, although why Uncle Victor felt it necessary to include any one of those three escapes me.”

  All of which, Shawna’s little barbs aside, pretty well confirmed what David himself had told me.

  I figured it would be best to leave after this, before the conversation had the opportunity to turn sour again. We were already at the door when Shawna said in her sweetest, most gentle tone, “Don’t worry—about your client, I mean. Scott and I both feel certain that the shooter was some juvenile hood out for a little target practice.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  She put her hand reassuringly on my arm. “I’d be willing to bet that it never happens again.”

  Chapter 8

  Going down in the elevator, I pondered Shawna’s parting words.

  Was this positive spin prompted by a reversion to her earlier, more sympathetic self? Or was she hoping to persuade me to shift the focus of my investigation away from her—and possibly her twin, as well?

  I was still reflecting on her motive when the car came to a stop on the tenth floor, and a middle-aged man entered. He was singularly unattractive. Short and squat (I know, but we’re not talking about me now; we’re talking about him), he had a wide, flat nose, watery brown eyes, and a forehead that reached all the way back to midway down his scalp, where it ended in a semicircular two-i
nch fringe of grayish brown fuzz.

  “Turned out to be a nice day, after all,” my fellow passenger commented, choosing to stand almost shoulder to shoulder with me in the large, otherwise empty elevator. Still, he seemed harmless enough, so I favored him with a faint smile in response. “I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, but you’re a very beautiful girl.”

  Well, what do you say to that, Kathleen Turner? My new beige cotton dress with the coordinating tweed jacket must work a lot harder for me than I gave it credit for. Anyway, I was stunned—but flattered. I don’t know which pleased me more, the “beautiful” or the “girl.” If either of those descriptives had ever been used in relation to me before, it was when I was too young to appreciate it. “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “You’ve got sensational hair, you know, and I happen to love natural redheads.” Okay, so the guy wasn’t exactly a connoisseur. I didn’t even have time to get out another “thank you” before he confided that he was a lonely bachelor.

  Mercifully, just then the elevator stopped at the ground floor, and I hurried out into the lobby, my admirer trotting along beside me. “If you’re free for dinner this evening, I’d be pleased if you would join me at Aureole. It’s a very fine restaurant,” he cajoled.

  “Yes, it is, but I already have plans.” I pushed open the outer door and saw John Lander pacing up and down in front of the building. “Oh, there’s my fiancé now.”

  “You might have mentioned a fiancé earlier. You definitely led me to believe you were available.” And with this, my ex-admirer strode away in a huff.

  “A friend of yours?” John asked when I joined him. Although he produced a grin when he inclined his head in the direction of the retreating Romeo, I instantly recognized that this was not the same composed, almost detached man I’d met just the day before. Unless, that is, my imagination was on the loose again. Which does occasionally occur.