Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  “Yes, I was just about to go into the studio, but then I decided to give him a call on my cell phone and remind him about the tuna casserole I’d prepared.”

  “You arrived back here at what time?”

  “It was close to eleven. The course is from seven to nine,” she clarified, “but I went for a bite afterward. I had a book with me—I always do when I know I’m going to be alone at a restaurant. Anyhow, I was reading over coffee, and I became so absorbed in my novel that I wasn’t aware of how late it had gotten.”

  “Did you normally stop off for something to eat after class?”

  “Always. I never seemed to have time for supper beforehand—I almost invariably wound up staying at the office until well after six. I work at an ad agency, or at least I used to. I took a six-week leave of absence, but I’m not even sure I want to go back.”

  “What happened after you found your husband mur—after you found him?”

  “I screamed, and I kept on screaming.” The voice was agitated now, and Sara had begun to manipulate her fingers at an accelerated pace. “Two of my neighbors came rushing over, thank goodness. I’m afraid I wasn’t up to much of anything; I was in shock. They’re the ones who called the police. They also got in touch with my sister—the one who lives here in town.”

  As if on cue, a considerably younger, taller, and more vibrant version of Sara Sharp entered the living room from somewhere else in the apartment.

  Sara made the brief introductions. “And speaking of that, this is my sister—Jane Beck. Jane, this is Ms. Shapiro.”

  I shook the outstretched hand, then glanced from one woman to the other. “I hope you’ll both call me Desiree.”

  “All right. And please call me Jane.”

  “And I’m Sara,” the widow put in. “Look, if it’s all right with you, I’d feel more at ease if Jane joined us.”

  Before I had time to respond, however, this was a fait accompli, with Jane already plopping down on the sofa alongside her sibling. Nevertheless, just to be polite, I mumbled, “That’s fine”—only with zero sincerity. I mean, you can never predict how a third party will affect the dynamics of an interrogation.

  “I was about to ask if there’s anyone you can think of who might have wanted to do away with your husband,” I said, proceeding with the questioning. (After all, what options did I have?)

  Sara shook her head vigorously. “Edward was a sweet, gentle man.”

  “There’s no one who had a grudge against him—no matter how trifling it may have seemed?”

  “If I had any inkling of who took my husband’s life, Desiree,” she retorted, glowering at me, “wouldn’t I have shared my suspicions with the police?”

  “Yes, of course. And I’m sorry for pressuring you like this. It’s only that I’m so intent on uncovering the killer that I got a little carried away.”

  “Anyhow, didn’t you tell me on the phone that you felt Edward and John were attacked by the same person?”

  “That’s right. And I strongly believe the reason to be Uncle Victor’s fortune. Nevertheless, I can’t allow myself to overlook the possibility that the two men might have had a common enemy. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, though, let’s go under the assumption—at least for the present—that the motivation does center around the will.

  “Well, with Edward gone, it’s John who comes into all that money. And since his life is in jeopardy now, the perpetrator would have to be one of the other potential beneficiaries, someone who’s determined to get his or her hands on that inheritance, no matter what.”

  “John seems to have reluctantly arrived at the same conclusion,” Sara said softly.

  “I gather you’ve spoken to him.”

  “I called him yesterday—right after I telephoned Uncle Victor. Uncle complained about not having heard from John in a few days, and I figured I should pass that along.” Abruptly, Sara stopped playing with her fingers (you can’t imagine how distracting this had been), placing her palms flat on the sofa, one on either side of her. “But mostly, once you mentioned those murder attempts, I wanted to reassure myself that John was okay.”

  “I was told that your uncle hadn’t been informed of Edward’s death,” I brought up at this point. “Have you managed to continue keeping this from him?” It’s funny. I was asking out of concern for the old man, but until that moment I can’t say I’d given much thought at all to the family patriarch. As a person, that is. It was almost—and this must sound awful—as if I’d been regarding him as already deceased.

  “Yes, although it hasn’t been easy. But the doctors felt it was best, and we—the family, that is—certainly concurred. The story Victor was given was that Edward had to go out of town on an extended business trip.”

  After this no one said anything for a few seconds. Then Sara burst out with, “My poor Edward! Who could have done that to him?” And covering her face with her hands, she began to sob.

  Jane threw a protective arm around her sister’s shoulders and held her close, while I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and glanced idly around the room. (I’ve said it before; you can safely bet your firstborn on my being totally useless in a situation of this sort.)

  It seemed like forever—although it was probably not more than a minute or two—before Sara’s hands came down. Apologizing sheepishly, she patted her wet, reddened eyes with a tissue. But it was apparent she was still shaken, so I figured I’d confine myself to small talk for a bit. “Did you make that lovely green bowl?” I asked, seizing on an item I’d noticed on one of the end tables a few moments earlier.

  Sara chuckled. “Good God, no. I’m not that talented.”

  “Not true,” Jane contradicted. “Sara’s always been very artistic.”

  “Only compared to you and Dana,” the widow responded offhandedly.

  “Stop being so modest. I remember when you—”

  Sara turned completely around now, so that the faces of the two women were only inches apart. “And you stop being so patronizing,” she said shrilly.

  The chastised Jane reddened. Ditto Sara, who appeared to be as startled by her outburst as I was. “I’m so sorry, Janie,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine what got into me.”

  It was obviously an awkward moment for them both. Which meant that it might be a good time to get back to what I’d come here for. “You mentioned your husband’s business before, Sara. What was it he did?”

  “He owns—owned—an antique shop in Greenwich Village.”

  “So then it wouldn’t have been that unusual for him to travel.”

  “Actually, his manager was the one who normally did the traveling, especially if there was flying involved—Edward wasn’t too keen on flying. But anyhow, Uncle Victor was told that Jay—he’s the store manager—was ill, so Edward had to make this buying trip to Italy himself. Of course, things are never that simple. Uncle Victor was angry when he didn’t receive even a single telephone call from my husband. Mrs. Clarke—Uncle’s housekeeper—did her best to pacify him. She claimed that Edward had phoned numerous times, but always when Uncle Victor was sleeping, and that Edward had insisted he not be disturbed. From what I understand, poor Mrs. Clarke got plenty of heat from Uncle for not waking him regardless. And he was none too pleased with his favorite nephew, either.”

  “He felt Edward should have tried harder to reach him,” Jane interjected.

  Sara nodded. “When I spoke to Uncle Victor from Richmond last week, though, I pretended I’d just had a conversation with my husband and that he mentioned how he always seemed to call Uncle at the most inappropriate hours. I insisted Edward was very upset about their not connecting yet. I also put in that he was taking a lot of day trips now but that he’d try Uncle Victor again as soon as he had a chance. Then I said that in the meantime he’d made me promise that I wouldn’t forget to send his love. Uncle Victor seemed pleased by that. In fact, when I telephoned him yesterday, there were no more complaints. He just wanted to know how Edward was doing and when he
was expected home.”

  “How is your uncle’s health at this point?”

  “All right. Or anyway, as all right as it can be, considering that he’s terminally ill. Strange,” Sara observed sadly, “it’s Uncle Victor who’s been given the death sentence. Yet here he is, still managing to hang on, while one of his heirs is already gone, and the other seems to be in danger of, God forbid, meeting the same fate.” And now she dabbed at her eyes, which were beginning to look suspiciously moist again.

  Anxious to head off any further tears, I hastily posed another question. “Just when was it you went to Richmond?”

  “Almost three weeks ago. Right after Edward’s funeral. My sister Dana insisted I fly back there with her, and to tell you the truth, I really wasn’t up to doing any coping yet, so I welcomed the invitation. Besides, my daughter doesn’t live too far from Richmond—she’s in Maryland—and she promised that she and her four-year-old twins would join me at Dana’s for a few days. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spend some time with my grandchildren.”

  “That was probably wise of you—getting away for a while.”

  “I had to. Thank heaven for my family. Janie is even staying in the apartment with me temporarily to help me handle all the things that have to be dealt with at a time like this.” Reaching down, Sara patted the other woman’s knee. “She’s taken a couple of weeks off from work to do it, too.”

  “Actually, it gives me an excuse to play hooky from that boring, underpaying job,” Jane kidded.

  “What can you tell me about my client, Sara?” I inquired then. “Uncle Victor’s will aside, do you have any idea who might have had reason to murder him?”

  The widow appeared to flinch before answering carefully, “I’m not that familiar with John’s personal life. But it’s hard for me even to imagine that anyone would want to do away with him. As you’ve probably discovered for yourself by now, John’s . . . well . . . he’s a good person.”

  “I can see someone wanting to get rid of that wife of his, though,” Jane piped up. “Probably a lot of someones.”

  “Trudie isn’t that bad, Janie,” her sister responded.

  “That’s your story,” the other insisted.

  “Listen, I can’t say that I’m crazy about her—and we’ve certainly never bonded—but it isn’t as if she’s public enemy number one.” Jane looked as though she was about to take exception to this, but Sara out-hustled her. “Do I get to ask you a question now, Desiree?”

  “Of course.”

  “John claims that the police suspect him of murdering Edward, that they don’t believe he was attacked himself. Is he right?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “I know John Lander. He isn’t capable of a thing like that. Besides, he and my husband were more than cousins; they were friends.”

  “I was the one who had to break the terrible news to people,” Jane informed me. “I phoned John at his office around eleven the next morning to tell him about Edward, and I had the impression he was not only shocked, but really, really upset. He doesn’t strike me as being that good an actor, either.”

  “The two men enjoyed each other’s company a great deal, Desiree,” Sara embellished.

  “I heard that you and your husband even went on vacations with the Landers.”

  “Only once, a couple of years ago.”

  “It didn’t go that well?”

  Sara hesitated almost imperceptibly. (However, not so imperceptibly that I failed to notice.) “It was fine. But last year Trudie was set on the Caribbean, and Edward and I preferred Cape Cod.”

  “Why anyone would want to be in that Trudie’s company is beyond me,” Jane sniped. “And that goes double for your client, Desiree. How can the man stay married to somebody like her? She never gives him a chance to open his mouth, for Christ’s sake! You know something? I’ve been at gatherings with those two exactly twice. But it didn’t take me nearly that long—about five minutes, actually—to conclude that Trudie Lander is a bitch. With a capital ‘B.” ’

  Sara smiled indulgently at her sibling before remarking lightly, “At any rate, you can’t complain about having to worm an opinion out of Jane, can you, Desiree?”

  Well, as innocuous as that statement was, it prompted Jane to take offense this time. Which, when you think about it, is understandable. Giving Sara a hand with whatever practical matters needed to be addressed was the easy part. I mean, just consider the tension involved in helping a loved one cope with their grief. “At least I’m no phony,” the younger woman shot back.

  “Are you implying that I am?” Sara challenged.

  “Don’t be silly. I—”

  “Because I’m no such thing. That’s something I shouldn’t have to tell you, Jane, of all people.”

  “You don’t, honestly. What I said had nothing to do with you. I just meant that I believe in telling it like it is.”

  “All right.” Somewhat placated, Sara managed a half smile. Then, looking her sister full in the face, she murmured thoughtfully, “Speaking generally, though, I do wish you could learn to be a little more charitable, Janie. Sometimes things happen to people that can affect them for the rest of their days.”

  I pounced. “Something traumatic happened to Trudie?”

  Sara turned as red as a ketchup bottle—I’m referring to a full ketchup bottle, of course. “I wasn’t talking about Trudie; I thought I’d made that clear. Although it is conceivable, you know, that her . . . well . . . abrasive nature is the result, at least partially, of some adversity she’s had in her life.”

  Naturally, no busybody worthy of that term would let her off so easily. “I hope you’re aware that I’m not jut asking out of idle curiosity; I’m trying to prevent a second homicide.” This was, at least, not a total lie. I mean, regardless of how much she protested, I had no doubt that when Sara delivered her little lecture to Jane she did have Trudie in mind—which, I told myself, could turn out to be relevant.

  “But this has no bearing on your investigation.”

  “Probably not. But my client’s safety may depend on my making absolutely certain of that.”

  Sara frowned. “I don’t—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Sara, tell her,” Jane broke in. (And, to think, I’d resented her presence!) “I’m sure Desiree’s not going to go around blabbing about it—whatever it is.”

  “All right.” The sigh emanated from her toes. “But you have to give me your word that this won’t be repeated. Trudie would be devastated if it should get back to her that anyone found out.”

  “Her secret is safe with me, as long as there’s no tie-in with the case.”

  “There isn’t,” Sara maintained. And she pressed her fingers into service again—those on her right hand, anyhow—running them nervously through her hair. Then, her voice not quite steady, she muttered, “But at any rate, here it is. . . .

  “A long time ago—when Trudie was barely thirteen years old—her uncle raped her.” She seemed to be gauging my reaction. “An experience like that, well, you can see how it might have caused permanent psychological damage, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” I responded meekly, feeling guilty at that instant for ever having had a single unkind thought about Trudie Lander.

  “He had warned Trudie not to tell her parents.” Sara went on. “He claimed they wouldn’t believe her, that he’d be able to convince them she fabricated the whole thing. But Trudie went straight to her father anyway, and he beat the uncle so badly that the bastard—his own brother, by the way—wound up in the hospital.”

  “Please tell me the uncle ended up in jail.”

  “I wish I could. But for her sake, Trudie’s parents decided not to press charges against him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Dead. For over twenty years, I believe.”

  The chilling revelation concluded, Sara leaned back against the sofa cushions. But she was apparently unable to resist an I-told-you-so. “See? Didn’t I say that what had o
ccurred with Trudie was totally unrelated to the attacks on Edward and John?”

  “I guess you’re right. Unless I just haven’t made the connection.”

  When I said good-bye to Sara Sharp and her sister that afternoon, I was more than a little disheartened. Waiting in the hall for the elevator, I recalled how hopeful I’d been yesterday about this meeting. Initially, that is. But then almost at once I’d had to acknowledge that Edward’s widow might fail to shed any light on the crimes. And faced with that possibility, I had put a theoretical question to myself: Where did I go from there?

  I’d had no answer.

  Unhappily, that question was no longer theoretical.

  And still I had no answer.

  Chapter 26

  I was home by two.

  Now, I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Which, because I’d overslept, had consisted of only a puny little corn muffin (I swear, it was about the size of a quarter) and a cup of coffee. Yet—and I’m still marveling over this—lunch never even occurred to me. An indication, if there ever was one, of my frame of mind.

  Hold on, I finally told myself, maybe there had been a clue of some kind today. Praying that I’d been too obtuse to appreciate its significance—and hoping for a sudden infusion of smarts—I sat down at my nine-year-old Mac and began transcribing my notes.

  I was at it for almost two hours, trying not to study the words but doing it anyway. If there was something of significance to be found on those pages, though, it was eluding me.

  When I shut down the computer I was more disheartened than ever.

  I had no idea how to proceed at this point.

  Of course, I could check out Sara’s alibi for the night her husband was killed. But what reason could she have for lying about her whereabouts? I certainly didn’t suspect her of doing away with the man. After all, with Edward gone, so were his widow’s hopes of coming into all those millions. Nevertheless, I supposed I should verify that she’d been at her pottery-making class as she claimed.

  It was three-forty-five when I looked up the number of Going to Pot in the telephone directory. A recorded message informed me that they’d be closing at five today.