Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  “There wasn’t anything definite.” Sara frowned. “But I get the impression you don’t believe me.”

  “I want to, honestly. You’re my sister, and I love you. But I loved Edward, too—he was like a father to me. It hurts me even to think that you might have cheated on him.”

  “I didn’t.” And now the widow focused on me. “I’m stunned that you would come to the conclusion that I was engaging in these clandestine trysts simply because I didn’t always remain at the school until nine o’clock.”

  “That’s not the reason I’m so convinced you were having an affair, Sara. But first, let’s clear up something. You’re claiming that you didn’t always stay until the session was over. The fact is, though, that you never stayed for the full two hours—not until the Tuesday your husband was murdered. And then you hung in until the end because your . . . um . . . friend contacted you during class to cancel your date. The instructor overheard the conversation.”

  “You’re right about one thing: I did get a phone call. But it was from a girlfriend. I was supposed to have dinner with her later that evening, and she wanted to let me know that she wouldn’t be able to make it.”

  Hoping for some assistance, I addressed myself to Jane. “The call wasn’t from a woman. Ms. Frankel—she was Sara’s instructor—is absolutely certain of that.” (Okay, so Lucinda Frankel hadn’t used the precise words “absolutely certain.” But it was close enough.)

  “Ms. Frankel was mistaken.” Sara’s jaw was jutting out about a mile now, a fairly reliable indication that she intended to stick to her guns. It crossed my mind then to fabricate a story about someone’s having spotted her and her playmate together, looking cozy. Which sometimes gets people to open up—and more often does not. But Jane, bless her, made the subterfuge unnecessary.

  “Ohh, Sara,” she murmured, her eyes brimming with tears, “how could you do that to Edward? He adored you.”

  “I know he did, Janie, I know. And he was very dear to me, too. That’s the truth.”

  “But there was someone else,” Jane badgered. The widow didn’t respond, and Jane’s tone became appreciably louder. “If you couldn’t be faithful, at least be honest, for God’s sake!”

  Sara spent the next three or four seconds contemplating her shoes. And when she fastened on her sister again, her expression was an unspoken plea. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen with . . . with anyone else. I—Before I knew it, it just did.” She spread her arms wide in a gesture of helplessness. “I realize you’ll find this hard to understand, Janie, but I didn’t stop loving Edward. Not ever.”

  “Of course not. That’s why you were sleeping around on him.”

  “I’m not condoning my behavior. But it’s as if . . . as if things were out of my control. You see, as much as I cared for Edward—and I cared a great deal—I never felt about him the way I did about . . .” I held my breath at this juncture, but Sara caught herself in time, biting her lip and then completing the sentence with “this other individual.

  “I wish I could explain it. All I can say for certain is that what was between us was . . . well . . . overwhelming.” She reached for the tissue box on the coffee table and wiped a tear from her eye. “I tried to break it off, believe me. But I couldn’t do it. I’m just not as strong as you are, Janie; I never have been.”

  “Bull.”

  “Look, whatever you think of me couldn’t come close to what I think of myself.”

  And now it was Jane who reached for a tissue. “Edward deserved better than that. And you know it.”

  “Yes, he did,” Sara agreed in a whisper.

  “Okay, who is he—this other guy?” Jane inquired sharply.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  “Can’t?”

  “All right. I’m sorry, Jane, but I won’t. There isn’t any point in revealing his name.”

  “Are you still seeing him?”

  “No.”

  Now, all this time I’d left it to Jane to interrogate her sibling, and she’d been doing a bang-up job of it, too. In fact, I seriously doubt if I could have persuaded Sara to admit to an affair. But there was a point that had to be made, and it didn’t appear that Jane was going to make it.

  “Let me ask you one thing.” Both women seemed startled by the sound of my voice. It was as if they’d momentarily forgotten I was in the room. “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that the only Tuesday night your lover broke a date with you was on the very evening your husband was murdered?”

  “I don’t see anything strange about it at all. Something had come up, and he just wasn’t able to keep our appointment.”

  “Jesus,” Jane muttered.

  “He didn’t kill Edward, Janie. If you knew him, you’d realize I was telling the truth.”

  “You honestly think that cancellation was a coincidence, Sara?” I asked.

  “Of course. This man was not responsible for Edward’s death. Violence isn’t in his nature.”

  “Then why aren’t you seeing him anymore?” Jane challenged.

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s because there’s a strong possibility that going on with the relationship would make me feel even guiltier than I already do. Or it could be that it’s a kind of self-punishment for betraying Edward. The one thing I’m just about positive of, though, is that I’ll never have peace of mind unless I can manage to forgive myself. And continuing to be with this person is not the way to accomplish that.”

  Her sister presented her with yet another explanation. “Or maybe you’re not really so confident that Mr. Wonderful didn’t shoot Edward.”

  Sara shook her head. “You’re totally off base about that.”

  “Maybe you refuse to admit it even to yourself,” the other persisted.

  I jumped in here. “Are you saying, Sara, that it’s never occurred to you—not even once—that the reason your gentleman friend might have been unavailable at the time Edward was murdered was because he was busy doing the murdering?”

  The widow peered at me as if I were some disgusting little specimen she should be viewing under a microscope. “No, it never has,” she seethed.

  But I was convinced she was lying. Just as I was convinced that if I kept at this until the cows came home, I’d still get that same answer.

  Chapter 31

  I stopped off at Little Angie’s for a slice (or three) of pizza before heading back to work.

  As soon as I was secluded in my cubbyhole I got started on the legwork—or in this instance, mouth-work—for Elliot.

  In spite of his feelings about the likelihood of Charlie’s niece owning up to the crime, I was anxious to have a crack at her. I called the number he’d given me for the girl, hoping I could convince her to meet with me. There was no answer.

  Next I phoned Clara, Charlie’s ex-wife, to schedule an appointment. But she informed me that she was off on a six-day Caribbean cruise in the morning. She sounded embarrassed about it. “Months ago—this was prior to Charlie and me deciding to give our relationship another try—I promised my sister I’d take this vacation with her. And she’d be just heartbroken if I canceled.”

  “Could you possibly spare me a few minutes today? We’ll make it wherever you say. And I’ll keep it brief—you have my word on that.” For good measure, I threw in, “It’s important that we talk in person.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Clara answered, her tone genuinely regretful, “but there’s no way I can do it; I have a million and one things to take care of before the trip. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I return, though, and we’ll set up something then, okay?”

  “Sure.” But my voice must have reflected my frustration.

  After this we spoke briefly about the accident. Clara mentioned that just as she was about to leave the apartment that night for an eight-fifteen date with Charlie, a neighbor had popped in unexpectedly, causing her to show up at the bar a little late. Still, she stated emphatically, she’d arrived well before eight-forty-five—the time of
the hit-and-run—and Charlie was already there, waiting for her.

  I had my fingers crossed when I posed what was the natural follow-up question.

  Clara thought for a moment. “You know, come to think of it, I probably did tell Emily—my neighbor—that I was spending the evening with Charlie.”

  The woman’s tone took on a new intensity here. “Listen, Ms. Shapiro, I hope you believe me when I say that my husband—I mean my former husband—couldn’t have been driving his car when it happened. He was having drinks with me. And that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  I recrossed my fingers when I dialed Emily, who fortunately (for me) was home with the flu today.

  “Two Januarys ago—on the tenth? Yes, I do remember. Clara was seeing her ex that night. Although why she doesn’t give that loser a ball four is beyond me. Is his lawyer aware that Charlie Weist’s been in jail twice—so far—and that when he isn’t in the pokey he’s cheating on his tax returns and smacking women around?”

  “I don’t have any idea what his lawyer knows.” Then, just to be agreeable, I added, “He sounds like quite a prize to me, though. But, I’m curious, how can you be so certain of the date?”

  “My mother-in-law’s birthday is the next day—January 11—and I was late buying her a present that year. I went to Clara’s because I was counting on her to come up with a suggestion for me. But she was in a hurry to go out, and she gave me the bum’s rush. Of course, a couple of days after that I heard about Charlie’s being in hot water for mowing down that poor old guy—probably the only time Charlie’s been innocent of anything in his life.” And now, maybe to satisfy my curiosity—which, in this instance, was totally lacking—Emily tagged on, “I ended up buying my mother-in-law a scarf. And she hated it.”

  “You wouldn’t recall what time you stopped in there, by any chance?”

  “Sez who? It was five after eight, give or take a minute or two. I ran over as soon as Wheel of Fortune went off. I don’t budge from the TV until then.”

  I was smiling when I put down the phone. While Charlie Weist was not exactly her favorite person, Emily could—and, equally important, would—testify to his appointment with his former wife that evening.

  Elliot’s position had just gotten stronger.

  I rushed around to his office to tell him so, but he had left for a client meeting.

  Submerging my disappointment, I busied myself with transcribing the notes on today’s visit with Sara. Although considering how that had turned out, it hardly seemed worth the effort.

  Later, at home, I began to marvel at how well things had gone with this new investigation. I told myself that maybe, all of a sudden, I was on a lucky roll. And the funny part is, I even got myself to believe it.

  Ellen called right after supper, and she commented on how up I sounded. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “Nothing, really. I just had a decent afternoon, for a change.”

  “Anything to do with your case?”

  “With one of my cases. I’m working on something for Elliot Gilbert, too.”

  My niece’s next words were hesitant—and predictable. “You haven’t gotten involved in anything that could . . . well . . . endanger you, I hope.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. It’s an accident matter.”

  “That’s good.” But evidently, she had second thoughts, because a moment later she piped up with “What kind of an accident?”

  I was shaking my head and rolling my eyes when I responded. “A not serious one, that’s what kind.”

  I actually couldn’t wait to go over the Lander file that evening.

  At around eight-thirty I sat down at the kitchen table with the usual cup of atrocious coffee and the manila folder marked with John’s name.

  I began right at the beginning—the Friday the Landers showed up at my office—rereading every word, many for the umpteenth time. Only there was one difference with this present go-around: my mind-set.

  You see, that folder had become increasingly intimidating each time I opened it. And the possibility that I might now be faced with having to identify not one perpetrator, but two, hadn’t contributed to my confidence.

  That night, however, I was still taking bows for what was in reality a very moderate success. I mean, I wouldn’t even let myself think that my coming up with a witness like Emily could be attributed more to luck than to brainpower. That night, too, I refused to allow myself to be burdened by my previous failure to unearth even a single lead.

  I studied the file with a clear head and an optimistic attitude. And suddenly, something leapt out at me.

  Just how, I wondered, could she have known that?

  Chapter 32

  Of course, what I picked up on at this moment should have hit me between the eyes the instant I’d heard it. But somehow it had sailed right over my head. And while I believe that even without my (temporarily) upbeat outlook I would have discovered the truth eventually, I’m convinced that my state of mind facilitated things.

  At any rate, as impatient as I tend to be, it’s rare that I have quite as much trouble restraining myself from lifting the telephone receiver as I did just then. But my watch read, “11:10.” And I recognized that this might not be the ideal time to deliver my message, particularly when you considered its contents.

  I expected that I’d be too agitated to sleep that night. And I was right. I didn’t even close my eyes until after 6 A.M. , and I was up by seven—with no prompting from the alarm clock. Which, in my entire life, probably hadn’t happened more than once or twice before.

  I was at the office at exactly nine o’clock. Jackie’s jaw dropped to her chest when she saw me.

  “Why are you here so early?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Yesterday I learned something about the Lander investigation that’s got me so wired I practically bolted out of bed this morning.”

  Jackie squealed. “You found out who did it!”

  “Whoa. It’s nothing that significant. Let’s just say that I’ve made a little progress. Actually, I suppose, a very little.”

  “So you still don’t know who tried to do in your client and offed that other fellow—his cousin?”

  Offed?

  I can’t figure out why Jackie—or Ellen, either, for that matter—deems it necessary to dip into cop-speak every so often. Maybe they’ve OD’d on NYPD Blue. Or maybe it’s intended as a show of solidarity with me—although I almost never use that jargon myself. Anyhow, it sounds so unnatural coming from the two of them that it’s all I can do to prevent the grin I feel inside from sneaking out onto my lips.

  I managed to keep a straight face, though. “The killer is still a great big question mark.”

  “Well, even if you haven’t worked it all out yet, you will.”

  That’s the nice thing about having good friends; they always try to say something encouraging. Whether they mean it or not.

  It was ten after nine when I dialed Sara Sharp. I’d held out as long as I could.

  Now, it was hard to tell whether Sara’s reaction to the sound of my voice was one of annoyance, anger, or fear. But for sure it wasn’t pleasure. Her response to my “This is Desiree Shapiro” was a clipped, “Listen, I thought I’d made it clear that I have no intention of giving you the name of the man.”

  So how’s that for a non sequitur?

  “I don’t want the name of the man,” I apprised her.

  “Oh?”

  “I already have it.”

  There was a gasp, then silence.

  “Sara?”

  “I’m here.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Another interval of silence. “That would probably be wise.”

  Less than an hour later Sara was ushering me into her living room.

  She seemed to have lost weight since the last time, and there hadn’t been that much of her to begin with. But considering that “the last time” was only a day earlier, the weight loss was doubtless entirely in my addl
ed brain.

  “Coffee?” she offered mechanically.

  “No thanks, nothing.” Taking a seat, I glanced around the room.

  “My sister isn’t in,” Sara notified me, reacting to my wandering gaze. She sank down on the sofa. “Jane’ll be gone until at least one-thirty. That’s why I thought it would be best if you came by now.”

  Damn! Jane had spoiled me, proving herself an invaluable ally when I’d questioned the widow previously. Well, I was on my own today—like it or not. And, to be honest, I didn’t really like it that much.

  “All right, go ahead,” Sara commanded. “Just who is it you suspect me of seeing?”

  “My client. And I don’t suspect; I’m positive.”

  She actually smiled. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  The woman was convincing; I’d give her that. Nevertheless, I was sure of my ground. “Hardly.” And removing a notebook from my handbag, I opened it to the page I’d folded down. “We were speaking about Trudie, and you made the comment”—I went to a short phrase underlined in yellow—“ ‘. . . we’ve certainly never bonded.” ’

  “That sounds familiar. But what significance is it supposed to have?”

  “You’ll see in a minute,” I answered, peering down at the notebook again. “Later, when you were about to disclose the abuse Trudie had suffered in her childhood, you told me”—and I read from another underlined passage—“ ‘Trudie would be devastated if it should get back to her that anyone found out.’ Do you recall this?”

  “Not really, although it’s possible that I said it. But I still don’t have any idea what you’re getting at.” She was, however, plucking away at some nonexistent threads on her jeans now and looking as strained as I’d ever seen her.

  “According to your own words, you and Trudie weren’t close. So why would she divulge such a painful secret to you?”

  Continuing the preoccupation with her jeans, Sara stared down at them as she responded, “Obviously, Trudie felt the need to unburden herself to someone, and I happened to be around at the time.” She raised her eyes while continuing to pluck. “Listen, I’ve known people to pour their hearts out to complete strangers—individuals they meet on a plane, for example.”