Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  This time she waited for a response. “No, I haven’t. But are you crazy? It’s too expensive. If you’re that set on being Lady Bountiful, there’s a nice little trattoria in my neighborhood that—”

  “If I wanted to eat at some nice little neighborhood trattoria, I wouldn’t need you for an excuse. Listen, Dez, Derwin and I usually go to places that aren’t . . . that is . . . umm . . . well, I have to admit that when it comes to money, Derwin is on the conservative side.” (I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way. I mean Mr. Big Spender isn’t too keen on patronizing any restaurant where you don’t have to carry your own tray.) “What I’m saying—and, honest to God, it’s the truth—” Jackie insisted, “is that I’ve been wanting to have dinner there for ages, and you’d be doing me a favor by supplying me with a reason for a little self-indulgence.”

  I’d have liked to suggest that we go Dutch, but I knew Jackie would veto that instantly. She seemed determined to pick up the tab for this. So being the considerate type, I decided to make her happy—even if in the process I had to subject myself to what promised to be a very good meal.

  “So?” she demanded. “When can you make it?”

  It wasn’t necessary to check my social calendar in order to inform her that my availability wasn’t likely to present a problem. “But I understand they’re booked way in advance,” I pointed out, “so I wouldn’t count on our getting a reservation anytime soon.”

  Jackie was unperturbed. “My cousin Alma’s stepdaughter works there. I’ll just give her a ring, and we’ll see what she can do.”

  The instant I made contact with my desk chair I dialed John’s office.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Can I get back to you in five minutes, Desiree?” I got the impression he was slightly frantic.

  Actually, it was eight minutes before I heard from him. But eight was close enough.

  “Sorry I couldn’t talk to you before. I was on the telephone with a client, and I had someone else holding on the other line.”

  “No apology necessary. I could tell you were busy.”

  “It’s only that my secretary’s been out sick for a few days, and I’m handling the phones. An unfortunate situation. So far this week I’ve lost three calls. No doubt they were all from people looking to buy multimillion-dollar properties.” The harsh, clipped sound that followed came out like “heh” and must have been intended as a laugh, albeit an ironic one. Then John said anxiously, “You’ve had your meeting with Fielding?”

  “Yes, early this morning,” I responded in a voice that must have reflected my dejection.

  “It didn’t go particularly well, I gather.”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “How bad does it look?”

  “It . . . uh . . . isn’t really terrible.”

  “They found my wings, didn’t they?” John put to me hesitantly.

  “Unfortunately, they did.”

  “I suppose you told Fielding they’d been missing for more than a week prior to the murder.”

  “Of course.”

  “But he didn’t believe you.”

  “I couldn’t convince him. I’ll keep on trying, though. Listen, John, I’m sorry, but I wasn’t able to learn anything about that search warrant. Are you positive you have no idea what the police could have been hunting for?”

  “None.”

  Actually, I was reasonably certain I knew the answer to this myself. In all probability they were attempting to track down the gun they believed my client had used to kill his cousin and then employed to set up a fake attempt on his own life.

  I shared this theory with John, who muttered, “I’ve been really stupid, haven’t I? Knowing how they think, I should have figured that was it.”

  “I have to ask you something else. Sergeant Fielding claims to have additional evidence of some sort against you. Is there anything you’ve been keeping from me?—it’s crucial that you be honest with me.”

  “I can appreciate that. But I don’t have a clue what he’s referring to.”

  I had no cause to doubt the denial. And I was both relieved and disappointed by it. The “relieved” due to the fact that having a client who levels with you makes it a helluva lot easier to do your job. (The reason for the “disappointed” is, I’m certain, evident.)

  “Before I forget,” John brought up then, “Trudie tells me you’re seeing her for coffee later. What’s that about, Desiree?”

  Now, this was not a subject I was particularly comfortable with. But he did deserve an explanation. So I told him as succinctly as possible that I needed information from his wife regarding her will and why I felt this could help us.

  “Oh” was John’s only response.

  “And John? I hope you’re being—”

  “You don’t even have to say it. I’m being careful. That is what’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Trust me, you have nothing to be concerned about on that score. If anything, I’m overly cautious.” And a split second later: “Well, I guess it’s time I got back to earning a living.”

  I wasn’t about to let him go yet. I was determined that the conversation end on a more encouraging note. “Look, about my visit to the precinct this morning—I’ve just given you the bad news so far. But there’s a brighter side, too: If Fielding et al. had any really hard evidence against you, you’d be talking to me from behind bars right this minute.”

  Somehow John managed a chuckle. “I’ll try to keep reminding myself of that.”

  Chapter 20

  The first thing I thought when Trudie Lander strode confidently into the coffee shop was that she belonged on the pages of a fashion magazine.

  Her makeup looked as if it had been applied by a professional. Her tawny shoulder-length hair had the kind of casual, almost careless appearance that it takes real effort to achieve. She was dressed in a cream-colored vee-neck silk blouse, with pearls that matched the blouse exactly, and crisp, beige linen pants. Now, I don’t know anyone else—particularly on a day as humid as this one—whose linen slacks, after about five minutes of wear, don’t end up as wrinkled as a sharpei. But I have a feeling Trudie Lander’s slacks wouldn’t dare get creased.

  “How are you, Ms. Shapiro?” she inquired as if by rote when she joined me at the table.

  Well, although I had no illusions about her interest in the state of my health, I, nevertheless, felt obligated to answer. “I’m fine, Mrs. Lander.” (I don’t know; the woman just didn’t seem like a Ms. to me.) “How are you? And I do wish you’d call me Desiree.”

  Her response as she was taking a seat was a perfunctory. “I’m fine, too.” A moment later she announced, “I’m going to have coffee and a toasted English. And you?” She was already crooking her finger at a nearby waiter, who hustled over just as I got out, “Coffee and a toasted English sounds good to me, too.”

  The waiter had no sooner walked away when a balding little man with a giant-size Adam’s apple approached us. I took him to be the owner of the establishment. “It’s nice to see you, Ms. Lander.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Raoul.” From her constipated expression, however, I had little doubt that she resented the intrusion.

  “Mr. Lander—he is well?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She practically hissed it.

  “A terrible tragedy about Mr. Sharp. Please tell Mr. Lander how very sorry I am about the loss of his friend.”

  “I will.” Trudie turned her head toward me in an obvious gesture of dismissal, following which Raoul took the hint and scurried off. And now she apparently felt the need to explain even this limited a familiarity with someone she considered not that worthy of her attention. “My husband and I have been coming here on occasion since we moved to the Village in 1991, Ms. Shapiro—it’s as good a place as any when all you want is a light bite.” She began to fidget with her place mat. “This is also one of the coffee shops where John and Edward used to meet for their weekly breakfasts. I did mention
the breakfasts, didn’t I? At any rate, they’d been getting together regularly like that for five or six years, I’d say—except for the time Edward canceled because his daughter Eugenie had given birth the night before and then a few months later when Edward’s dog died. Although why a grown man—an adult—would carry on about that is hard for me to understand. The animal was over seventeen years old, for pity’s sake. Anyway, they always ate in this neighborhood because Edward works—that is, worked—in the area, and, of course, it was convenient for John, as well.”

  Suddenly she was regarding me intently. “John and Edward were extremely fond of each other—John was almost inconsolable when he found out that his cousin was dead. Yet those two incompetents the police have assigned to this case think he’s the person responsible. Evidently because they’re too dense to come up with the real culprit.”

  Well, another day I would have leapt to Fielding’s defense. But not today. “Eventually the truth will come out. I—”

  Trudie cut me off with a wave of the hand. “All right. Why did you want to see me?” she demanded. “Have you found out who tried to kill my husband?”

  “Not yet. But I intend to. Actually, I wanted to talk to you because I’m hoping you’ll be willing to provide me with certain information. Information that could help convince the police that they’ve targeted the wrong man for Edward’s murder.”

  “They suspected John right from the beginning, you know. They even believe he fabricated that report he made about being shot at.” And then her face conveying total disgust, Trudie mumbled under her breath, “The morons.”

  “That’s why I have to ask you what’s really a very personal question.” I waited for permission.

  “Go ahead,” she said tersely.

  “The principal reason the police appear to be so convinced of your husband’s guilt is because he’s the only one who benefits directly from Edward’s being out of the picture.” Noting that she was about to object to this, I continued in such a rush that I stumbled over the words. “I had a long visit with Sergeant Fielding this morning. And believe me, I tried to impress upon him that they can’t afford to overlook the possibility that one of the others in line for the money is set on removing any obstacles that stand between him or her and Uncle Victor’s estate. But I think it might support my argument on John’s behalf if I knew something about his financial situation.”

  “I don’t want to be rude, but didn’t it ever occur to you to find this out from John?”

  “Well . . . uh . . . what I’m interested in specifically is your will.” God, this was awkward!

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’d like to . . . that is, it might bolster my position if I could . . . umm . . . point out that John stands to inherit a considerable amount of money from his own wife. If that’s true, I mean.”

  “Am I following this? Are you saying that if you can establish that I’m leaving a tidy sum to John, you could make the case that he would just as soon wait around until I expire?”

  I prayed hard—and in vain—for the ground to open up and swallow me. Luckily the waiter returned with our food at this moment, affording me the opportunity to collect myself a bit. Succeeding somehow in ignoring Trudie (who was expressing her impatience by drumming on the tabletop), I stalled as long as I could, nibbling on my muffin, then following this with a few sips of coffee and another nibble or two of muffin. But at last she was no longer able to contain herself. “Listen, you can stuff yourself after you let me in on what in hell you’re talking about.”

  “What I’m getting at,” I said with a sick smile, “is that if John were the sort of person to kill for money it would have made a lot more . . . well . . . sense for him to have eliminated you.” I was so reluctant to utter the “you” that it was barely audible.

  “What?” Trudie exploded. “Why more sense?”

  Naturally, I couldn’t tell the woman that her demise would have meant that John would no longer be dependent on her to subsidize his business, that he’d finally be out from under her thumb. (As a basis for this contention of mine I had to accept, of course, that my client was as miserable with this lady as it was assumed that he was.) But anyhow, I did have a perfectly acceptable explanation in mind—which seemed to have inexplicably vanished from my brain. I was sitting there floundering when Trudie took me off the hook and provided it herself.

  “I presume you’re referring to the fact that he could have done away with me a long time ago. However, I’m worth a total of between three and four million dollars, Ms. Shapiro, which I imagine you’re aware isn’t even a fraction of Uncle Victor’s assets. Still,” she added thoughtfully, “people have killed for less. The real problem is that my husband and I have a marvelous relationship, so even if John were a murderer—which I assure you he isn’t—I’d be the last person in the world he’d want to harm. He—” She stopped abruptly, then shook her head. “But I’m being silly. That shouldn’t give the police any pause. After all, they have no way of knowing how solid a marriage we actually have.”

  Between three and four million, I was thinking. Definitely nothing to sneeze at. Especially if it went hand in hand with the termination of an intolerable union. “Uh, your husband is your heir, I take it,” I put to Trudie.

  “My only heir. And if you want proof of this for our estimable police department”—she was sneering now—“I can give you the name and number of my lawyer. I’ll instruct him to answer all their questions on the subject, including the amount of money involved.” She was retrieving her handbag from the floor while she spoke. Seconds later I was presented with the card of a William Morse Connor, Attorney-at-Law. After which Trudie declared—and in not too friendly a manner, either—“And now it’s my turn.

  “It was my idea to bring you into this.” (America’s sweetheart here was certainly not above altering the truth a little, was she?) “And that, as I’m sure you can comprehend, places a tremendous burden on me. Since the night someone took a shot at my husband, I live in fear that there’ll be another attempt on his life.” So he hadn’t told her about Saturday’s near miss, then. “And no offense intended, but to be perfectly honest, I’ve begun to wonder if perhaps you may not be the proper person to handle this investigation. It has been a week since you began working for us, Ms. Shapiro”—five days, I wanted to shout—“and, unless I’m mistaken, you haven’t made the slightest progress. So as difficult as it is for me even to broach the subject, if you don’t find the guilty party soon, I’m afraid we will no longer be requiring your services.”

  I didn’t respond. There was really nothing I could say—except that maybe I should be fired. Hadn’t I myself told John that he would be wise to replace me with a PI firm that could also furnish him with a personal bodyguard? I was toying with the notion of presenting this same alternative to Trudie—although it was likely it had already crossed her mind—when all of a sudden she giggled. “Say,” she said, placing her hand over mine in an astonishing gesture of camaraderie, “I believe I’ve just this minute come up with the perfect way of ensuring that John stays alive.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A dash of arsenic or some such in his uncle’s Maalox. Don’t you get it?” she clarified for my blank face. “Once Uncle Victor is gone, my husband automatically inherits. And after that John’s death would no longer benefit any of the others. That’s not as cold-blooded as it sounds, either—you have to take into account that the old man’s days are numbered anyway.”

  Stunned, I looked at her closely, trying to determine if this was intended as a joke. There was what I can only describe as a Mona Lisa smile on Trudie’s lips. But I didn’t have a clue what was behind it. Had the woman merely been trying to shock? Or had she been feeling me out, hoping that for the right price I’d volunteer to tackle Uncle Victor’s Maalox?

  Reading my reaction now, she put in hurriedly, “For heaven’s sake, Ms. Shapiro. You couldn’t possibly have taken me seriously.”

  “No, of c
ourse not,” I replied, but probably not very convincingly.

  The truth is, to this day I haven’t decided whether Trudie Lander’s sense of humor is one of the most bizarre I’ve ever come across. Or if there’s a side to her that’s darker than even her harshest detractors could envision.

  Chapter 21

  The apartment was stifling when I got in, but I didn’t stop to turn on the air conditioner. I went straight to the phone.

  Now, rather than do what I felt I had to do just then, I’d have preferred to chew nails. Unfortunately, however, I didn’t have that option. So swallowing the resentment I currently bore toward Tim Fielding, I put in a call to him.

  “Fielding.” He didn’t say it; he growled it.

  “Hi, Tim,” I responded cheerily.

  The reaction was not what you could call heartwarming. “No, not again!”

  “I realize that you gave me a lot of time this morning, and I really do appreciate it.” (I almost made myself gag with that one.) “But the thing is, I just learned something you should be aware of.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I can’t go into it on the phone.”

  “Then forget it.”

  “This is information that’s important to your investigation,” I argued.

  “Fine. I’m listening.”

  “It would be so much better if we talked in person. Suppose I buy you lunch tomorrow? Anyplace you choose.”

  “Tell me, Shapiro, how long have we known each other?”

  “I can’t say offhand. Maybe—”

  “Never mind. It’s been years, right? And how often have you called me with an offer like this one? In fact, if my memory isn’t playing tricks on me, as recently as this morning you were supposed to enlighten me. The only thing on your devious little mind, though—and don’t think I wasn’t aware of it, either—was to find out what evidence we had against your client.”