Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  “I would.”

  He chuckled. “All right, I will.”

  “John, I trust that you’re still on your guard, even though there haven’t been any, well, incidents for a while—thank heaven.”

  “You don’t have to be concerned. I’m being careful. Maybe too careful.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m beginning to suspect that I’ve gotten totally paranoid.”

  Uh-oh. “And this is because—?”

  “Last night, on my way home from the office, I stopped for a bite at some little restaurant in the Village. I had to park on a fairly dark side street, and when I went back for my car after dinner, the street was just about deserted—it was past midnight by then. At any rate, I could have sworn I heard footsteps behind me and that they kept getting closer. But I turned around a few times, and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  “It was probably only in my mind, Desiree. I have to admit, though, that I was really in a sweat. I was seriously considering making a dash for my Range Rover, but all of a sudden a whole group of people—at least eight of them—came pouring out of this house directly in front of me. There must have been a party of some kind. Anyhow, one of the couples was headed in the same direction I was, so if I was being stalked—and that’s a big ‘if’—this pretty much put the kibosh on it.”

  “Ohh, John,” I wailed.

  “Please. Don’t worry. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that my imagination was working overtime.”

  But I, on the other hand, wasn’t convinced at all.

  There was no question of my not going over the remainder of the Lander file that evening.

  I stuck with it to the bitter end, too. It was ten after one when, rubbing my eyes, I finally closed the dog-eared folder. If there was anything to be learned from it, though—once again I hadn’t learned it.

  On Wednesday I transcribed my notes on the conversation with the widow, following which I read over them carefully. I struck out there, too.

  I had reached the point where I was starting to be even more disgusted with the results of my investigation than Trudie was. In fact, I was seriously considering firing me myself—before my client met the same fate his cousin had. After all, what else could I do? I seemed to have come to a dead end. Either I was dealing with a very clever assailant here or he/she was dealing with a really stupid PI. But whatever the reason, it was becoming more and more apparent to me that the case needed to be examined by a fresh set of eyes.

  As we’d arranged a couple of days earlier, after work my neighbor Barbara Gleason and I met in front of a theater in the neighborhood of our mutual apartment building. I’d left the selection of the movie to Barbara, since there wasn’t anything I was particularly interested in seeing, and besides, she invariably pokes fun at my taste. Take Babe. So okay, I’d had a slight hissy fit when it didn’t walk away with the “Best Picture” Oscar that year. But this was quite a while ago, you know. Yet there’s still a good chance that when Barbara and I talk films, she’ll manage to sneak in a reference to “that silly talking pig you’re so enamored of.” Anyhow, we wound up watching some inane Jim Carrey picture. Barbara absolutely adores Jim Carrey—which is so not what you’d expect from her.

  As soon as the show was over it began to rain. Not having been forewarned by the weather mavens (thanks a heap, WLIW), neither Barbara nor I had an umbrella. But fortunately there’s a decent restaurant on Eighty-fifth Street that’s practically around the corner from the theater. Noreen’s, it’s called. While not exactly a four-star establishment, the atmosphere here is pleasant, and the food is usually pretty tasty. Although why they insist on referring to their fare as “Continental cuisine” escapes me. The extensive menu is loaded with dishes like Manhattan clam chowder, Maryland crab cakes, and Texas chili. But I suppose they feel justified in the “Continental” designation since they do offer one or two entrées with French- and Italian-sounding names. Which I doubt that many people have the courage to order there.

  Now, with Barbara I can never predict whether I’m going to be having a pleasant dinner with a friend or a lecture from a pain-in-the-butt diet guru. That night she was a friend. This I sort of determined almost immediately, when my choice of the Southern fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy escaped without so much as a mild censure. And my initial feeling was confirmed big-time later on when she didn’t blink an eye after I asked the waiter if I could have my brownie topped with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge sauce. (I could.)

  Well, since she’d been equally nonjudgmental during our last outing, it occurred to me that she might have reformed—although because I know Barbara as well as I do, this was not an easy concept to accept. It wasn’t until she’d finished her last forkful of grilled salmon that I learned the reason for tonight’s particularly benign behavior. This past week she’d received a Teacher of the Year award from her school, and she was still in such a mellow mood that I’ll bet she would even have tolerated my adding whipped cream to that dessert order.

  “I really thought I’d be able to hold off and tell you over coffee,” she said with a smile so huge that it seemed to cover most of her face, “but I couldn’t wait. It’s terribly gratifying to be honored like that, Dez. Throughout your career you do everything but stand on your head in an effort to motivate your students—some of whom have absolutely no inclination to learn. And let’s not forget the abuse you have to take from the parents; they can’t comprehend how you could possibly have given their little twelve-year-old gangster-in-training a ‘D.’ Never mind that he deserved an ‘F,’ but you didn’t want to discourage him completely. And then, of course, you have the administration to contend with, with all of that petty politicking. I tell you, there have been times I was almost ready to chuck everything and get a job driving a bus.” The picture this conjured up might have sent me into a paroxysm of laughter if I hadn’t been able to exercise such iron self-control. “But now,” Barbara went on, “I receive an award like this, and it makes me feel . . . validated. I would imagine you experience a similar type of satisfaction after wrapping up an especially difficult investigation.”

  “I suppose I do,” I responded uncertainly.

  “By the way, you had just started on a new project when we went to the ballet that night. How did that work out?”

  Luckily, I’d already consumed the last morsel of chicken; otherwise, I don’t think I could have managed to get it down—that’s how the case had begun to affect me. “It’s still up in the air. Somebody’s out to kill John Lander—he’s my client—and I haven’t been able to figure out who that somebody could be. Actually, it’s very possible I’ll resign and let the Landers bring in another PI. Maybe the new guy can get a handle on things before anything dire happens to John.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re that discouraged. This isn’t like you, Desiree.”

  “Look, it’s been almost two weeks. And I’ve already interrogated everyone involved about everything I can think of, without making any real headway. I just don’t know where to go with this anymore.”

  “I take it you’re not leaning toward any particular suspect.”

  “No, not really. I’d like to believe that the perpetrator must have slipped up somewhere, though—most of them do—but if he or she has made a mistake, I haven’t caught it.”

  “You know, sometimes these things have a tendency to percolate. What I mean is, on some level we’re aware of something, but we don’t recognize that we are. I’m certain it’s happened to you, too. You’ll drive yourself crazy attempting to come up with some piece of information that’s been eluding you. And then after you finally give up and manage to put whatever it is entirely out of your mind—consciously, at any rate—that’s when your brain suddenly appears to work at full function.

  “What I’m suggesting, Desiree, is that you not withdraw from the project just yet; give yourself a few days. But stop going over every tiny detail in your head again and again—which I don’t dou
bt is exactly what you’ve been doing, true?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Give it a little rest.” She reached across the table and briefly clasped my hand in a gesture of encouragement.

  The conversation returned to the teaching award now, so in spite of my appetite’s having eluded me minutes before, by the time the waiter took our dessert selections (Barbara’s being fresh fruit salad, naturally), I was primed to enjoy that rich, gooey, incredibly yummy indulgence described earlier.

  As soon as we were served I invited my good friend to enjoy a spoonful or two before I dug in. Which seemed to me only mannerly. Her “no thank you” was accompanied by a withering glare, one so potent it would have totally unnerved the uninitiated. But having been on the receiving end of her unspoken rebukes for so long (the spoken ones, too), it didn’t even give me pause. Actually, I welcomed it. It was reassuring to know that the real Barbara still inhabited that skinny-as-a-stick body.

  The thing is, while on occasion she does have this tendency to be bossy and overly critical—you might even say impossible—I realize that it often stems from genuine concern. I mean, Barbara’s harshest reprimands center around my food intake, the woman being calorie- and cholesterol-obsessed. Also, while it takes a while to discover this, she’s a kindhearted and generous person. If you ever need a favor, you don’t have to ask her twice.

  When we were leaving the restaurant, Barbara prepared me. “Listen, about your investigation, don’t be surprised if something occurs to you in the middle of the night.”

  It didn’t happen that way, though. The solution to the Lander case didn’t arrive in the wee hours at all.

  It was to come with the salad.

  Chapter 35

  Guess who went up in the elevator with Barbara and me that evening.

  Nick.

  He looked really spiffy, too. He was sporting a well-fitting cotton tweed jacket in beige, white, and brown with beige slacks and, to complete the outfit, a white shirt and brown-and-yellow rep tie.

  Immediately after confirming Harriet’s information about the naked state of his third finger, left hand, I noted that he wasn’t toting a briefcase. Which, being that I’m such an experienced PI, instantly communicated that he hadn’t been working late at the office. Most likely coming home from a night of debauchery, I concluded sourly. (I was to subsequently find out that the man owned a flower shop, so a briefcase wasn’t exactly a mandatory appendage.)

  “Hi,” he said, smiling. His glance took in the two of us.

  My “hi” and Barbara’s were simultaneous. But while I automatically smoothed down my hair and tried to think of something sparkling to say, Barbara was the one to begin making friendly conversation.

  “You just moved in recently, didn’t you?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “Welcome to our building. Have you managed to settle in yet?”

  He smiled. “I’m kind of pokey, I’m afraid. I still have a lot more cartons to unpack.”

  “It can be a pretty daunting task,” I piped up. “When I moved here, it took me forever to put everything away.” Not what you’d call “sparkling,” but at least I managed to contribute something.

  The exchange ended there. Barbara and I only live on the fourth floor, and although our elevator is pokey, it’s not that pokey. As we were getting out of the car, however, Nick called after us, “The name’s Nick Grainger, by the way.”

  I turned around. “Mine’s—” But the door—which normally takes six months to creak to a close—this night slammed in my face.

  “Seems to be a nice guy,” Barbara remarked as we headed down the hall. “He wasn’t wearing a wedding band, either.”

  Now, I don’t know at what age little girls discover how essential it is, when in the company of an appealing member of the opposite sex, to zero in on that all-important finger. But I do suspect that once learned, this is a lesson that remains with us until the grave.

  I tried to be cool. “Oh? No kidding.”

  “Don’t give me that, Desiree Shapiro. You started blushing the instant that fellow entered the elevator.”

  “You’re crazy,” I mumbled.

  “I am, huh? And there’s a good chance he’s available, too. You should thank me for checking out his hand for you.”

  We had reached our respective doors by then, so I escaped with a “ ’Night, Barbara, talk to you soon” instead.

  Once in my apartment I made a beeline for the bathroom mirror. The hair was slightly messy, but fortunately it wasn’t dripping wet, the rain having ended during dinner. And while I hadn’t done a very neat job of reapplying my lipstick, I was wearing a nice dress—a cap-sleeved turquoise shantung. All in all, I concluded, I looked fairly presentable. Which was a giant step up from my first encounter with Nick Grainger.

  Preparing for bed that night, I had a frightening thought. Suppose I did drop out of the Lander investigation and another PI was brought in. And what if John was murdered before this new person was able to get to the bottom of things? I could never be certain that if I’d stuck with it a little longer, I wouldn’t have uncovered the truth—and prevented this tragedy.

  Barbara’s advice—you know, about putting the case out of my mind for a time—made sense. But it turned out that I was too much of a compulsive to follow it.

  The instant I sat down at my desk on Thursday morning, I was opening the all-too-familiar manila folder. Less than an hour later, however, I closed it decisively.

  What was I accomplishing, anyhow? And to really complicate matters, thanks to last night’s bedtime “what-if,” I was not only apprehensive about remaining on the case but equally leery about getting off it.

  Well, since I was so ambiguous about things, I determined that I’d have to devise a new course of action in the event I should decide to hang in a bit longer. And this, obviously, required some hard thinking.

  I reached into my desk drawer for a couple of Extra-Strength Tylenol. Which I regarded as a start.

  And then I went totally blank.

  After ten unproductive minutes I figured it might be best to take a break and start fresh a bit later.

  I began the hiatus by polishing my nails—three coats, no less. Following this I phoned my old college friend Christie Wright in Minnesota. Thank goodness we had a lot to catch up on, so we wound up chatting for the better part of an hour.

  Ellen called before I had a chance to conjure up any other delaying tactics. She wanted to go over the guest list for the wedding with me. Now, with the BIG EVENT so far in the future, I might ordinarily have put her off. But today I was delighted to be of assistance. The final matter under discussion was whether the beau of “Ginger, who lives in my building,” should be included among the chosen. Well, since her friend’s sizzling romance was only of two weeks’ duration, I suggested Ellen wait and see if the couple had any staying power before coming to a decision. And with that sage advice the conversation ended.

  Right after this I visited Jackie at her desk. Her close-to-perky attitude apprised me, even before the words did, that Derwin was continuing to behave himself. We were only able to visit for a few minutes, though, because she soon got busy with the phones.

  Waving good-bye to Jackie, I went out for a sandwich and some window-shopping. But I chickened out on the window-shopping part when Mother Nature let loose with what I swear was the loudest clap of thunder I’d ever heard. Needless to say, it sent me scooting back to work.

  It was probably just as well, however. I mean, enough was enough. I had a job to do.

  I’m not quite sure how long I sat in my office, attempting to think of something—anything—that would enable me to move forward with the investigation. Provided I elected to move forward, that is. I do remember that I swallowed a lot and that most of the time my head was in my hands. At any rate, I finally settled on an approach that, while hardly inspired, beat having another go at that despicable folder. (Also, it was the only thing I was able to come up with.)

 
; My plan? To reinterview the suspects. Listen, who knows where that could lead, right? Of course, I’d have to invent a plausible reason for requesting that David and the twins see me again. And this would require some serious brain wracking. But I’d tackle that tonight.

  Opening the bottom drawer of my desk, I got out my umbrella and plastic kerchief.

  Right now, client or no client, rain or no rain, I was going to have my hair done.

  Chapter 36

  Emaline did a mediocre job on my hair. But with Emaline, mediocre is good—even to be hoped for. Of course, I can’t say that I was crazy about the Shirley Temple curls, but about ten minutes of energetic brushing should uncoil them.

  That, however, would wait. Right now I was hungry. There was still a little leftover marinara sauce with mushrooms in the freezer, and this over a dish of rigatoni along with a nice salad would suit me fine.

  While the sauce and the water for the pasta were heating, I shredded some lettuce and halved a few cherry tomatoes. I was about to slice up a couple of radishes when suddenly—pretty much as Barbara had suggested could happen—it struck me: the realization that something was very wrong here.

  Setting down the knife, I leaned against the counter for a moment to steady myself. Then, in a kind of daze, I went into the living room for my attaché case. I pulled out my notes and thumbed through them quickly until I found the corroboration I was looking for.

  Shaking, I sat down on the sofa to sort things out in my mind for a bit. After which I buried my head in the pillow and cried.

  It isn’t easy to accept that someone you liked, someone you trusted, is a diabolical killer.

  Especially when that someone is your own client.

  Chapter 37

  Now, what had come to me somewhere between the cherry tomatoes and the radishes was that John didn’t react the way common sense dictates he should have reacted.