But an instant later I was giggling out loud. Prompting the cab driver to turn around—narrowly missing a bus in the process—and give me one of those “I’ve picked up another nutcase” looks. I hadn’t been able to contain myself, though. After all, I’d been spared what might well have turned out to be the worst ten minutes of my life, and here I was, bitching about it.
It’d serve me right, I decided, if—heaven forbid!—Pop made a return visit to New York soon.
I didn’t arrive at the office until just before ten. But it was obvious I was still in favor with Jackie, because she forbore chastising me with so much as a raised eyebrow.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries I hurried back to my cubbyhole, where I wasted no time in dialing John.
He was fine, there’d been no “incidents” since we’d spoken on Wednesday, and naturally he was being cautious. I was not to worry.
“How are things going?” he asked then.
I had to admit there was nothing to report.
“Well, you’ll come up with something,” he responded gallantly. “I know you will.”
Immediately after we hung up I was on the phone with Sara Sharp.
“Yes, this is Mrs. Sharp. You’re investigating Edward’s death, you say?” The voice was low and pleasant.
“That’s right. I was hired by John Lander. Whoever killed your husband has also made two attempts on Mr. Lander’s life.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very serious.”
“Oh, my God! Is he all right?”
“Fortunately, yes.”
“And you believe the same person who shot Edward was responsible?”
“I’m all but certain of it.”
“Oh, my God,” she repeated, more softly now. An extended silence followed, the woman apparently needing some time to absorb the disturbing news. Then she said firmly, “I’m assuming the purpose of your call is to question me. But I’ve already spoken to the police about my husband’s death, and I was no help at all, I’m afraid. As for John, I can’t even imagine who might have attacked him.”
“The thing is, you may be in possession of some important piece of information without even being aware of it. And that information could lead me to uncover the perpetrator. If we could just get together for a few minutes I’d—”
“I’m sorry, but I’m still pretty traumatized by the murder of my husband”—this was attested to by the catch in her throat—“and I’m really not up to going over all of that again, especially since I have nothing to tell you.” She sounded as if she might be only a breath or two away from tears. Nevertheless, I made myself persist.
“Please don’t think I’m insensitive to your loss, Mrs. Sharp. I’m very, very sorry about your husband. And I wouldn’t pressure you like this if it wasn’t my experience that people often know a lot more than they realize they do. I’ve seen that sort of thing dozens of times.”
“Maybe you have,” Sara Sharp retorted brusquely, evidently having sidestepped the tears. “But that’s not true in this instance. Why don’t you leave me your number, though? I’ll be sure to call you if anything occurs to me. You’ll have to excuse me now, Ms. Shapiro; I have a great deal to do.”
I had no doubt she was about to put down the phone, so in my most commanding tone I shouted, “Wait!”
“What is it?”
“I have one last question.”
“Which is—?” the exasperated woman demanded.
“How would you feel if something were to happen to Mr. Lander—and you hadn’t even tried to prevent it?”
“But I have no idea who’s trying to harm him. Honestly.”
“And you’re sure there isn’t some tiny scrap of information you might have overlooked?”
“Yes, I am.”
The pit-bull gene that must have been passed down to me from some long-expired relative, however, refused to take that yes for an answer. “Remember, Mrs. Sharp, John Lander’s life is at stake.”
Seconds ticked off before the response. “Well . . . I’m 99 percent sure, anyway.”
And right then I knew I had her.
Chapter 24
My conversation with Sara Sharp left me feeling pretty good about things. Not only had I succeeded in persuading her to meet with me, but I was more hopeful than I had any right to be about the outcome of that meeting.
It didn’t take long, however, for anxiety to set in. What if it was just as the woman claimed: that she really didn’t have anything to tell me? I mean, where in heaven’s name did I go from there?
I realized that if I wanted to get any work at all done before tomorrow’s eleven-thirty appointment with the widow, I’d have to drag myself out of what was rapidly turning into a semidepression.
Somehow I succeeded in barring from my mind both the pending get-together and the fears I’d managed to conjure up with regard to it. Sort of, at any rate. But while I painstakingly studied my notes, my concentration wasn’t what it should have been. And every few pages I fretted about what I might have missed.
At three-thirty I finally gave up and closed the folder.
I was able to reach Ellen at home, my niece having given herself a mental health day (something I should have considered, too). And we agreed that our scheduled five o’clock drive out to New Jersey should be pushed up an hour. Then after a brief visit to the ladies’ room followed by the mandatory detailed explanation to Jackie, I was ready to go gown-hunting.
The shop was in a white-shingled, two-family house that looked exactly like every other white-shingled two-family house on the block. Except that this one had a sign that read “Brides by Genevieve.”
I’d taken only about five or six steps into the showroom, with Ellen immediately preceding me, when I had a conniption.
The nerve! She’d told us Thursdays and Saturdays that last time, and we made our plans, Ellen and I, to accommodate her schedule. Yet here she is on a Friday, big as life. Uh-uh, bigger!
She hadn’t seen us yet; her back was to the door. So I gave Ellen’s arm the slightest little yank with the intention of dragging her out of there as fast as these short, underused legs could manage it.
Ellen’s loudly proclaimed “Ouch!” however alerted the occupants of the room to our presence.
Minnie whirled around to face us, a smile of recognition instantly spreading over her face.
“Well, look who’s here! Auntie! And Elaine, isn’t it?”
“No, Ellen,” my niece corrected politely.
“Yes, of course. You bought that gorgeous lace dress—you were a vision in it, too. See? I remember.” She narrowed her eyes. “Say, has anyone ever told you that you look like Audrey Hepburn?” A blushing Ellen opened her mouth—to protest modestly, I’m sure—but Minnie barreled ahead. “Don’t you think so, Auntie?”
Well, of course, I’ve been saying this same thing for ages, but I’m always happy to hear it verified. No matter who’s doing the verifying. “She’s the spitting image of her,” I answered proudly.
“Well, let’s not go overboard.” And now my favorite saleswoman returned her focus to Ellen. “You’ve come in to select your headpiece this afternoon, am I right?”
“Umm, not exactly.” Ellen was peering at me helplessly.
I took her off the hook. “Actually, I thought I’d check and see if you had anything for me. I’m the matron of honor. But you’re pretty busy today”—I indicated the other three people there with an expansive gesture—“so I think it would be better if we stopped by another time.”
Minnie laughed. Or to be more accurate, she cackled. “Uh-uh, you’re not getting away that easy. It happens that I’m free as a bird at the moment. That one’s waiting for her fiancé to pick her up.” She tilted her head in the direction of a very pretty girl sitting at one of the small round tables that dotted the showroom. “And little Donna over there?” Minnie was jerking her thumb toward another table at which a chubby teenager was arguing loudly with a visibly perturbed but more circum
spect older woman—most likely her mother. “She’s being helped by my sister Francesca.”
Suddenly Minnie sidled closer to me, leaving no more than a claustrophobic six inches between us. Automatically, I backed away. Minnie was undeterred. Leaning over and bending way down to reach the vicinity of my ear, she put a cupped hand to the side of her mouth. There was a hint of malice in her eyes when she whispered, “You wanna guess my sister Francesca’s real name? It’s Fannie.”
“Listen, I have sort of a headache, so maybe—”
“We’ve got aspirin and Tylenol. What’s your poison?”
“I think it would make more sense if we did this another day.”
“Look, why don’t you sit down and relax for a few minutes? In the meantime I’ll show you a couple of gowns—only a couple—and if you don’t like either of them, you can cut out. Fair enough?”
“I’d rather—”
“Come. Take a load off.”
I found myself dutifully following the woman, Ellen close behind me. Wuss that I am, I didn’t know what else to do.
Well, this provided me with the perfect view of Minnie’s rear. A treat I’d gladly have forgone.
Now, while I admit that I myself have more than adequate natural padding, I do avoid the kind of clothes that make me appear to measure practically the same across as I do up and down. So I couldn’t help shaking my head over Minnie’s choice of apparel.
She’d encased hips the width of your average New York City kitchen in an outfit that not only called attention to her girth, but practically screamed it. As on our last visit here, she wore a muumuu, but this one actually managed to outdo that other nifty little number—something I wouldn’t have thought possible. I mean, the flowers on the thing were positively huge and in the most vivid shades imaginable. But it wasn’t just the dress that was so outlandish. You had to factor in the profusion of bangle bracelets that covered both arms almost to the elbows. Not to mention the scuffed gold sandals, which were further enhanced by purple toenail polish (the polish, by the way, matching not only our girl’s fingernails but her lipstick, too). And, oh yes, perched precariously atop Minnie’s sparse yellow curls was a rhinestone butterfly.
Ellen and I had just settled in our chairs when a tall, slender woman emerged from the back of the house. She had short auburn hair and nice, even features. And she was impeccably turned out. The black silk pants and long-sleeved black silk shirt fit as if they were made for her. (Very possibly because they were.) Draped over the newcomer’s arms were three dresses, which she was carrying across the room to the now noncombative young Donna and companion.
This couldn’t be Francesca, Minnie’s sister—could it?
I asked myself.
Nah, I promptly answered myself.
Minnie, who was standing over us, aimed a purple-painted thumb at the object of my deliberations. “Francesca, formerly known as Fannie,” she said tartly.
Well, how do you like that! I was still marveling at the fact that these two had been born of the same parents, when Minnie announced, “Pink.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Pink is your color.”
“I don’t want to limit myself like that.”
“You leave everything to me. I’ve got thirty years of experience to tell me what’s right for my customers. I’m not only talking about color, either. What I want you to keep in mind is that someone of your weight has to be extracareful about the lines of a garment, as well.” (I really appreciated these words of caution, coming as they did from a giant lump parading around in a neon-hued muumuu.) “You seem offended, Auntie, and you shouldn’t be. I’m not casting any aspersions. I’m a fat lady, too, remember?” And she punctuated this with one of her extremely irritating cackles.
Well, I think you can see what I meant about Minnie. Being in her immediate vicinity had the same effect on me as listening to someone scrape his fingernails on a blackboard. And if I heard that “Auntie” one more time, I might be seriously tempted to take out a contract on the woman.
“So what’s it going to be—long or short?” she demanded.
“Long.” Ellen was the one to respond, probably because she noticed that I was busily engaged in gnashing my teeth.
Minnie nodded her approval. “Good.” She turned to me. “It won’t make you look as dumpy. Be back in a jiff.”
The instant Minnie was out of earshot Ellen said softly, “I hope you’re not paying any attention to that stupid cow.” And placing her hand gently on my arm, she favored me with a tentative smile. “You’re not the least bit dumpy-looking, honest to God.”
“Don’t worry, Ellen. That didn’t bother me.” (Not precisely true.) “Minnie is what bothers me. How would you feel about our picking up and getting the hell out of here?”
“If you want to,” Ellen reluctantly agreed. “They have such lovely things, though, so if you could possibly manage to put up with her . . .”
I thought for a moment. “You’re right, I suppose. After all, we’re already here. I’ll just have to try my best to tune her out.”
Seconds later Minnie returned. Her “couple of gowns” adding up to four.
“You’re gonna love this. It’s my favorite,” she told me, holding up the first of her selections. Pale pink chiffon, the dress had a low, round neck, long sleeves—and bugle beads strewn over virtually every inch of it. I’m not claiming it was ugly or anything. But it was a little too too for me, if you know what I mean. I said as much to Minnie who, I was pleased to note, took it personally.
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Trust me, it’ll look sensational on you. A friend of my sister Gertie’s—that’s Genevieve to you—wore a gown exactly like this to her son’s wedding last month, and it was the hit of the affair. I can let you have it for half price, too.”
“Incidentally, where is she—your sister Genevieve?”
“Home with the flu all this week. And you’re lucky she is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here to take care of you. I’m sure I told you this—I guess you forgot—but normally I only work Thursday nights and Saturdays. Anyway, Gertie’s a string bean like your niece. She really hasn’t got a clue about what’s becoming to girls built like you and me. But never mind. Just slip into this as a favor to me. I promise you’ll thank me for making you do it.”
“Listen, Minnie, I have no intention of getting into a gown I don’t even like.” I half hoisted myself out of the seat. I’d had enough.
“Okay, Auntie, okay. Keep your panties on. Far be it from me to force a customer into anything.”
The second dress, to my astonishment, was pale yellow. An ankle-length, modified A-line, it had a vee neck and graceful butterfly sleeves. The only ornamentation was a double row of seed pearls outlining the bottom of the sleeves.
“I just brought this out to prove to you that pink is your color,” Minnie informed me as I fingered the delicate silk fabric.
“I love it,” I declared.
“Really?” She hastily stuck the gown under my chin. Then, her finger to her cheek, she pretended to check out the effect. “I’m not ashamed to say I was wrong. It happens that this particular shade of yellow is very nice with your skin tones. Shall we try it on?”
“We certainly shall,” I responded, unable to resist interjecting a bit of sarcasm, which Minnie either wasn’t aware of or chose to ignore.
At any rate, I’m delighted to report that the dress fit beautifully—or at least it would after a couple of minor alterations. Even lacking those, however, Ellen oohed and aahed all over the place. To say nothing of you-know-who.
“It’s divine on you,” Minnie gushed, as I stood on the platform, admiring myself in the mirror while a seamstress took in a little material here and let out some more over there. “It’s true that I originally had pink in mind. But I get these hunches sometimes. And—I don’t know—something told me this was the dress for you.”
Chapter 25
You
wouldn’t exactly call her pretty. Nice-looking would be a better way to describe her—although at present Sara Sharp’s appearance clearly reflected the impact of her recent loss.
The large brown eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and there was a tightness at the corners of her mouth that very likely hadn’t been there before. Her fashionable, blunt-cut blond hair was in desperate need of a touch-up, revealing a good inch of dark roots. What’s more, the faded, outsize green sweater and baggy tan slacks did nothing at all to enhance the widow’s round, womanly figure.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she inquired politely as I gingerly lowered myself onto a delicate damask Louis Somebody-or-other chair. “Coffee? A Pepsi, maybe?”
“I’d love a cup of coffee,” I said—which wasn’t even partially true—“that is, if you intend to join me.”
“I’m trying to cut down on my caffeine intake. But I’ll be happy to put up a pot for you. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
Now, I’ve found that it can be helpful to do your questioning over refreshments of some kind. It seems to produce a more companionable atmosphere, frequently leading people to speak more freely. But if Sara wasn’t going to partake, there was no point in my sacrificing myself. “Thanks anyway, but on second thought, I think I’ll pass. I should really cut down, too.”
“Then you may as well ask away.” She settled into the brown velvet sofa, one leg tucked under her.
“Umm, I realize this must be very difficult for you, but do you think you could tell me about the evening your husband was . . . that your husband died?”
The response was delivered in a flat, almost monosyllabic tone. “There’s very little to tell. I was at my Tuesday evening pottery-making class—at a place called Going to Pot down on Varick Street. I came home to find Edward on the kitchen floor.” With this, Sara put her hands in her lap and began to alternately intertwine and release her fingers. “He was dead.”
“I understand you phoned him that night at a little after seven.”
Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair Page 14
