Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  And now I suddenly realized how hungry I was. Apparently, once I was able to plan my next move—and never mind that I didn’t actually expect anything to come of it—I could focus on more mundane things. Like a stomach that was starting to give me what-for. So right before leaving the apartment, I slathered some peanut butter on a slice of Jewish rye and ate it standing up.

  I didn’t want to be late for school.

  Going to Pot was a storefront studio way, way downtown. And with the Saturday traffic extraheavy this afternoon, it took close to a full hour to get there.

  When the taxi deposited me at the address, a tiny white-haired woman was already locking the door to the premises.

  She turned her head, and I saw that she was surprisingly young and pretty. “Do you work here?” I asked. (Not exactly a perceptive question considering that she was holding the keys to the place.)

  The woman smiled. “I suppose you could call it that. I’m the owner, as well as the sole full-time instructor—Lucinda Frankel.”

  “My name is Desiree Shapiro. I’m a detective,” (okay, so I left out the “private”), “and I’m looking into the death of the husband of one of your students.”

  I held my breath in anticipation of the possibility she might ask to see my shield. She didn’t.

  “You mean the husband of one of my former students,” Lucinda said. “Understandably, Sara didn’t continue with us after the murder. I assume you are talking about Sara Sharp.” I decided it was okay to resume breathing. “But a couple of detectives were here about that weeks ago.”

  Oh, crap! However, I nodded knowingly. “Sgt. Fielding and Detective Melnick.”

  “Could be. I’m not very good at names. The younger one was fairly nice-looking, though.”

  “Detective Melnick,” I supplied automatically.

  “It’s possible,” the proprietor conceded, reddening. Then before I could get out anything more she added, “Listen, I’m in kind of a hurry right now. And I’ve already told those other detectives all I know.”

  “I’m aware of that. But there’s been some mix-up—a clerical thing—and we just want to be certain we have all the facts straight.” (I mean, what else could I say?)

  “I have to get home on time tonight: it’s my daughter’s first formal.”

  I felt that I should acknowledge this disclosure in some way, but I had no idea as to the appropriate response. I settled on an insipid, “Oh, how nice.”

  I guess it was all right, though, because Lucinda grinned proudly.

  “I only have one or two matters to clarify,” I pressed. “And it won’t take more than a minute or so.” She seemed to hesitate, so I tagged on, “It could be very important.”

  “We-ll . . . All right, but you’ll have to make it brief.”

  It was plain that she had no intention of opening the door to the studio again. We were going to do this right here—on the sidewalk. I glanced around me. It was still light outside. The weather was warm, but not oppressively so. And the passersby of the moment looked reasonably respectable. (I chose to ignore the drunk sprawled in the doorway across the street. And anyway, he was passed out.) “Umm, Sara Sharp. She was at school the night her husband was murdered?”

  “Oddly enough she was here for the whole two hours.”

  “What do you mean, ‘oddly enough’?”

  “Sara rarely stayed until the class was over, which is at nine. Normally she was out of the place by eight, eight-fifteen.”

  “Did she ever give a reason for cutting out like that?”

  “It seems to me she may have said something the first time she did it—which, as I recall, was the same night the course began—something about some personal business she had to attend to. But I wouldn’t swear to it. It’s possible I have her mixed up with another student.” Lucinda tittered ruefully. “Not that I have so many of them that I have an excuse for being confused.”

  “But you are sure that it was on the evening her husband died that Sara remained until nine?”

  “Look, I always check the obituaries,” the woman admitted sheepishly. “So when I read about her husband’s death in the New York Times I thought it was kind of ironic that this was the one instance where Sara actually hung in until the bitter end. Although it wouldn’t have made any difference if she had taken off early. She never left before eight o’clock, and I understand that’s around the time Mr. Sharp was shot.”

  Lucinda shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a good indication that she was getting antsy, so I was slightly taken aback when she continued. “Besides, I can pretty much swear that Sara wasn’t going straight home all those nights. She was meeting someone. And at the risk of sounding like a gossip—but, after all, this is a murder investigation and I suppose I shouldn’t hold back—I’m quite sure the man wasn’t her husband.”

  “What makes you feel that way?”

  “Because shortly before eight on the evening of the shooting Sara received a call on her cell phone. I was on my way to check out how another member of the class was progressing on the potter’s wheel, and I had to pass Sara to get to her. Sara had her back to me, so she didn’t see me approaching. Anyhow, the caller was evidently canceling their appointment, because I heard Sara ask, ‘Are you sure you can’t make it tonight?’ Then she said in this kind of adoring tone women don’t ordinarily waste on their husbands, ‘All right, I understand. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, so-and-so.” ’

  “‘So-and-so?’ You mean Sara mentioned a name?” I was tingling with excitement.

  “I believe she did. But, unfortunately, I didn’t catch it. I was pretty much out of hearing range by then.” Lucinda was doing that foot-to-foot thing again. The only difference was that at this point she looked at her watch, as well—a pretty reliable sign that my time was about up.

  “Did you tell the police—er, the officers you spoke to before—any of this?”

  “They seemed to be interested only in whether or not Sara was in class that night and how long she remained. The rest of it—about her usually leaving early—that never came up. I would have volunteered the information, honestly,” Lucinda added apologetically, “but—I don’t know—it just didn’t occur to me then. Do you think it’s relevant?”

  “I’m not sure yet; it could be, though. So thanks for bringing it to my—to our—attention.”

  “I hope it helps.” And distributing her weight evenly then, Lucinda announced, “Well, Detective, I’m afraid there isn’t anything more I can tell you.”

  And now there was no doubt at all. I was dismissed.

  Chapter 27

  As soon as the taxi dropped me off, I bumped into Harriet—literally—who was leaving the building at the exact moment I was entering it.

  We stood on the sidewalk and chatted for a little while. Steve was out of town on business again, she told me, so she figured it would be a good day to hit the department stores. She’d spent the afternoon shuttling from Bloomingdale’s to Saks to Lord & Taylor, desperately looking for a pale blue sweater to go with her new navy slacks. But the stores had absolutely nothing. “I called your apartment around twelve”—her tone was slightly accusatory here—“because I was hoping to persuade you to accompany me, but there wasn’t any answer.”

  I’d been spared!

  Now, if you had ever experienced the pleasure of shopping with my friend Harriet, you’d be able to appreciate that reaction. You have to understand; this woman is the Queen of Undecided. I mean, I’ve seen her vacillate for over ten minutes trying to choose between two shades of panty hose, for God’s sake! I made a valiant effort to sound disappointed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it, but I had to see someone with regard to this case I’m involved in.”

  “That’s okay,” Harriet responded magnanimously. “And anyway, I’ll most likely be going to Macy’s one night during the week. Maybe you can come with me then.” I was right in the middle of a shudder when she made another suggestion. “Say, I was just on my way to the deli for so
me takeout. And the truth is, I don’t feel the least bit like deli, only I hate to eat out alone. But if you haven’t had anything yourself yet, we could grab a bite together. Wherever you like.” I hesitated for a second or two, so she put in quickly, “Unless you’ve made other plans, of course.”

  “The thing is—”

  “If you want to change first or anything, I don’t mind going back upstairs to wait. I’m in no big hurry.”

  Well, in light of what I’d learned at the pottery school (or in front of it, if you want to be technical), I had a lot of thinking ahead of me tonight. “I wish I could, but I’ve got a kind of work crisis.” And then because she appeared to be slightly crestfallen, I added, “But if Steve will still be away tomorrow evening, why don’t I fix dinner for the two of us here?”

  “I accept,” Harriet responded instantly. “Steve won’t be home until Tuesday.”

  I ate a ten-minute supper—a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder, courtesy of Progresso, and a ham sandwich. After which I cleared away the dishes and sat down at the kitchen table again with a cup of coffee. Just coffee. I wouldn’t let myself take the time to swallow so much as a spoonful of dessert. I was that anxious to assess the impact of Lucinda Frankel’s revelation on the investigation.

  Did the fact that Sara had been having an affair change the entire picture?

  Very possibly, I decided. While it was conceivable that the woman’s lover had done away with her husband, this wouldn’t account for the attacks on my client.

  For the first time I had to acknowledge that I might actually be dealing with two different perpetrators.

  Let’s assume the mystery man—for reasons of his own—had shot Edward. A consequence of his act, while doubtless inadvertent, was to bring Uncle Victor’s remaining potential heirs that much closer to acquiring a fortune. Certainly this could have prompted one of them—Shawna or Scott or David—to attempt to become closer still by removing the remaining obstacle to all of that beautiful money: John Lander.

  And what were the chances that it was Sara’s inamorato who’d murdered her husband? Well, in view of my long-standing problem with coincidence, I considered them pretty damn good. I mean, it was a lot easier for me to accept the man’s being a killer than to swallow that he was suddenly—and legitimately—unable to see her on the very night Edward met his end.

  At this point in my introspection I contemplated Sara’s involvement in the crime. If the boyfriend did kill Edward, was she also culpable? Had the two of them conspired in his death? Not too likely, I concluded. After all, it appeared that she’d been intending to meet her beau as usual until she received his phone call.

  I wondered then about how Sara herself regarded the cancellation of that rendezvous. Presupposing she was innocent, wouldn’t this, in retrospect, give her cause to suspect that the guy had planned to be too busy eliminating her spouse to keep their appointment?

  Sara’s demeanor today had led me to believe that she was genuinely grief-stricken. Perhaps Edward’s death had left her saddled with some heavy guilt feelings about having cheated on him. Or it could be that she was experiencing two losses—that of her husband and of the person she might very probably be blaming for his murder. Or maybe Sara Sharp just had a talent for feigning anguish.

  There was another thing that puzzled me. Since it was hardly the best-kept secret in town, I couldn’t help but think that the “other man” was aware that Edward had been about to come into a windfall. So if this was the case—and still going on the assumption that our Mr. X was the perpetrator—why didn’t he wait until his intended victim had inherited before taking any action? I mean, almost certainly poor Edward’s wife was his beneficiary—or the major one, at any rate—and would then have become an extremely well-to-do widow. And after all, we were only talking a matter of months here, following which Mr. X—whoever the hell he might be—would have had the opportunity to reap some financial rewards for his efforts.

  I could only speculate that he’d been out to prevent the woman from coming into that money. Why? Who knows. Maybe he didn’t want her to have the independence this sort of wealth could bring. Maybe he was filthy rich himself. Maybe he was some kind of eccentric. Maybe he . . .

  Damn! Why hadn’t Lucinda overheard the guy’s name!

  Having driven myself crazy with all of these “maybes” and “could bes” and “perhapses,” I realized I was overdue for a little TLC break.

  I spent the next half hour up to my neck in warm, fragrant bubbles. It was so relaxing, so pleasant that I might have been there until morning if the phone hadn’t rung.

  I jumped out of the tub, grabbing a towel as I scurried out of the bathroom. Nevertheless, I managed to leave a small river to mark my route to the kitchen telephone. And wouldn’t you know it? By the time I picked up, the caller was gone. Worse yet, he (she?) hadn’t even had the courtesy to leave a message.

  Anyhow, at least I’d been pried away from all of those seductive, mind-numbing bubbles.

  Minutes later I was dried off and back at the kitchen table, rereading my notes on this afternoon’s meeting with Sara Sharp. Only this time with her secret lover in mind.

  Again, no luck.

  I like to think that the reason I was unable to spot what was right there, staring me in the face, was because I was so tired by then.

  Which explanation definitely beat the alternative.

  Chapter 28

  My very first thought when I awoke on Sunday morning was that I’d have to arrange to see Sara again as soon as possible.

  “I don’t understand the purpose of another meeting,” she said petulantly when I phoned her at ten-thirty. “I was under the impression we’d already gone over everything.”

  “Something’s come up,” I insisted, “and I really need your input.” Then when she didn’t answer at once: “It could be the key to finding out who killed your husband.”

  She finally agreed, sounding dubious. “I suppose I should make myself available if you believe it’s that important. I can’t do it today, though. Is tomorrow all right?”

  Of course, I’d have preferred hearing “Come right over,” but I settled for what I could get. Which was eleven-thirty on Monday.

  Well, since the appointment with Sara wasn’t going to make it necessary to withdraw my invitation to Harriet, I proceeded to devote some thought to our dinner that evening.

  Now, when I’m feeding company, I usually give myself a pretty decent head start on the preparations. But in this instance I’d been so preoccupied with that new development in the investigation that I hadn’t even shopped. So although I’d planned a fairly simple meal, I was still feeling a little pressured.

  Hastily throwing on some clothes, I wound up making a hole the approximate size of the state of Delaware in my panty hose—and right near the ankle, too. I decided to ignore it. I also elected to shut my eyes to the fact that my hair looked as if I’d just stuck my finger in an electric socket. Plus, I was halfway out the door when I realized—and I can’t imagine how it happened—that I’d neglected to put on makeup. I rushed back inside, did a slapdash job of remedying the oversight, and, saying a small, silent prayer that I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew, headed for the elevator.

  Well, better I should have taken the stairs. Because there he was: the short, skinny, slightly balding tenant who had recently moved in on the sixth floor. My heart plunged down to my kneecaps. (Can I help it if I have weird taste in men?) He smiled broadly at me—most likely because I was such a sight—and I saw that his teeth were slightly bucked. (Could it get any better than that? I mean, he was practically perfection!) I barely managed to stretch my lips in a return greeting before switching my gaze to the floor. Which was definitely because I was such a sight.

  On the way to the supermarket I suddenly recalled my mother’s long-ago admonishment about always leaving the house in clean underwear in the event you were hit by a truck. Well, how come she’d never mentioned what precautions to take in case you ran int
o a cute guy in the elevator? You know, like making your hair presentable, and cleaning up those globs of mascara under your eyes, and instantly changing your holey panty hose—that is, unless the holes didn’t show.

  But almost immediately, I turned philosophical. Maybe I should be thankful that I did look so singularly unattractive this morning. Since Ed’s death, my experiences with regard to members of the opposite sex could bring tears to your eyes. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that some Higher Power had intervened to spare me from another disaster. And after all, it wasn’t as though I were the kind of woman who considers it essential to have a man in her life.

  Still, it would be nice if one of these days I could find someone—the right someone—to scrub my back and zip up my zippers. . . .

  I was finished in D’Agostino’s in fifteen minutes—probably a personal record—and from there, I made a brief stop at the greengrocer’s.

  When I got home I worked on the starters first: zucchini-Parmesan puffs and a chilled salmon mousse. Then I fixed a humongous salad. Following which I prepared the wild rice with mushrooms and onions. I even got in a little measuring and mincing for our entrée: orange chicken with almonds. Fortunately, I didn’t have to be concerned about dessert. I had some very nice cheesecake squares in the freezer.

  Harriet arrived at seven with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. As we drank the wine and nibbled on the hors d’oeuvres I mentioned the fellow in the elevator.

  “You must be talking about Nick,” I was informed.

  “How do you know his name?”

  “We met in the laundry room last week. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, either.” And now she was eyeing me pityingly. “But do you really think he’s cute?”

  “Yes, I do,” I snapped, feeling defensive. Also irritated. Listen, much as I like him, her Steve would make precious few hearts go pittypat.