Chapter 15
“By the way, I left a message on Doris Shippman’s machine last night,” Lou informed me in the car, “and she returned my call this morning. She only has this one class today—she must be a teacher—and she was due home by a little past eleven. So we can pay her a visit after we’re through at Sheila’s.” There was a pause. “Listen, Desiree, let me ask you this: As you know from my report, last week Pete and I questioned everyone who was working in those two buildings on Hedden Circle that Wednesday. Also, we contacted any visitors to the companies over there that day—including delivery people. You want to talk to them all yourself anyway?”
Well, considering the tone of his voice, I could just about picture Lou’s face if I answered in the affirmative. “You didn’t come across any witnesses, I gather.”
“You kidding? Hardly anyone was still around at the time of the shooting.”
“What about earlier? Did anybody notice the Camry?”
“I’d guess the car wasn’t there much before six—the perp was probably waiting until most of the people had left for home. One woman thought she might have walked by it, but she wasn’t sure—that was around six-fifteen.”
“It sounds like you and Pete already established that no one in those buildings can be of help to us. So I’ll pass.”
Lou nodded, his face a blank, but I knew he must be satisfied with the response.
Then I remembered something. “What about Vincent’s secretary or receptionist or whatever she is, though? As I recall, she didn’t stay late on Wednesday, did she?”
“Receptionist,” Lou clarified. He snickered. “Her stay late? Not on your life. Ms. Taylor is fifty if she’s a day, and a real beaut. False eyelashes, dyed red hair”—of course I winced at this one—“and makeup she must pile on with a shovel. She said if he wanted to spend half his life in that place, it was okay with her, but he couldn’t pay her enough to work past five. After all, she has a social life to consider.”
“Did you, uh, ask her about any enemies Vincent might have had?” I inquired timidly.
“What do you think?” Lou retorted, his tone a shade irritable. Then more evenly: “She looked at us like we were crazy for even putting the question to her. ‘How would I know?’ she answered. ‘Go talk to that rich, hoity-toity wife of his.’ ”
Now, I could always meet with the receptionist later on, if it came to that. So in the interests of our recently established—and tenuous—harmony, I told Lou I’d pass on Ms. Taylor, too.
He seemed pleased with my decision.
“Listen, there’s something else I wanted to check out with you, too,” I said.
“Sure.”
“Heard anything on the fingerprints yet—the ones in the Camry?”
“Yeah. And the bottom line is, forget it,” he grumbled. “Just like I figured.”
“Oh, and I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the murder weapon. I assume you haven’t had any luck there, either?”
“A hundred percent correct. So far the damn thing hasn’t turned up. All I can tell you at this point is that according to the ballistics report, Vincent was killed with a 9-millimeter semiautomatic.
“Incidentally, I placed a couple of calls to Paris this morning, at one-thirty to be specific. I had trouble sleeping—too much Italian food, probably, along with a little too much thinking—and making those phone calls beat having to watch what was on TV. Anyhow, it was seven-thirty a.m. over there, and I talked to that Chinese lady, Claire Wu. She confirmed driving out to the Loire Valley with the widow. She was with her from Tuesday morning until Thursday night, she told me. I wasn’t able to reach the second woman, but we can give it another shot later. If we try around noon, we may catch her when she comes home from work—assuming she has regular hours, of course.”
“Why bother? The alibi appears to hold up. But then, I expected it would, didn’t you? I mean, Sheila Vincent wouldn’t have mentioned being with friends unless she was certain of what they’d be telling us.” I sighed. “So if Mrs. Vincent was involved in her husband’s death, she had somebody else do her dirty work for her. The question is—”
Lou held up his hand to end the speculation—which, I suppose, is borderline more polite than if he’d verbally shut me up. “I want to remind you,” he said quietly, “of the word you just used.”
“What word?”
“If. You said if she had anything to do with his death. That if is something you’re going to have to keep in mind, you know. We’re even checking out a second theory now, or have you forgotten why we’re headed for the Vincent place this very minute?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. And you’re absolutely right. It’s important to be open to other possibilities.” But the next instant I returned to my speculations—this time keeping them to myself. Who had the widow enlisted to pull that trigger for her, anyway?
If she was responsible for her husband’s murder, that is.
Chapter 16
We sat in that damn car for over a half hour—my buns getting more numb with every passing second—and Sheila Vincent still didn’t show her face. Or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.
I made what I considered to be a very practical suggestion. “Why don’t we try Doris Shippman first, then?”
“Okay,” Lou agreed—my hand was on the door handle—“if Mrs. Vincent doesn’t get back in another five minutes.”
We waited that other five minutes. And after this, five more. No widow Vincent. Finally Lou had also had enough. (Maybe his buns were beginning to act up on him, too.) So we scribbled a message that said we’d be back in about an hour, put the time on it, and slipped it under Sheila’s front door.
Then we headed for the red brick house diagonally across the street.
“But you can’t believe Sheila had anything to do with Frank’s murder!”
Lou and I had been questioning Doris Shippman in her spacious, cheerfully furnished living room for a short while. And having just been advised that she had no idea who might have wanted the victim dead, we’d moved on to the topic of the Vincent marriage.
“No one believes anything right now, Mrs. Shippman,” Lou assured her. “We’re just trying to get all the facts.”
“I’m no fool,” the attractive brunette snapped. “You wouldn’t be asking me how Sheila and Frank got along if you didn’t have some doubts about her.”
“Honestly, this is normal procedure,” I put in.
She didn’t appear to be convinced, but she mumbled something that vaguely resembled “okay,” which I took as permission to try again.
“You’re aware that there was real trouble there, aren’t you?”
“Well, I don’t think aware is the right word. I did have my suspicions, though.”
And from Lou: “But Mrs. Vincent never confided in you?”
“I guess she was ashamed. Women are ashamed of that kind of thing, you know.”
Something in her tone gave me the idea that Doris and Whatever-his-given-name-was Shippman might not exactly be reveling in wedded bliss, either. I had to inform myself that it was highly unlikely the state of the Shippman union could impact at all on our investigation. And if that was the case, their relationship was none of my business. (This second point wasn’t a very potent argument, however, since it had rarely deterred me before.) At any rate, forcing myself to abandon this line of thought, I concentrated on the Vincents again. “So when did you begin to suspect what was going on?”
“I guess it must have been about a year ago,” Doris answered. “Sheila always explained things away, of course, and I always accepted the explanation—maybe because it was easier that way. But those bruises were—”
I cut her short. “Are you telling us the victim batted his wife around?”
Silence. Then Doris muttered, “But I got the impression . . . from how you spoke, I figured, well, that you knew. Damn!” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Damn!” she said again.
Lou was sympathetic. “Don’t worr
y. We would have learned about it eventually anyway. Something like that was bound to come out.”
“I wish it hadn’t come out of my mouth, though,” the woman retorted, her voice tight with self-directed anger.
“How often did this sort of thing occur?” Lou continued.
She was thoughtful for a moment. “It’s hard to say. Sometimes Sheila would show up with a new black-and-blue mark twice in one week, and then I wouldn’t spot any other bruises on her for about a month.”
“Of course, that doesn’t mean they weren’t there—on places you wouldn’t normally have seen,” I reminded her.
“I suppose so,” she conceded.
“I don’t understand something, though. A good friend of yours is being beaten by her husband, and you pretend to be oblivious to that fact because—in your own words—you found it easier?”
“I just didn’t know what to do,” a shamefaced Doris responded. “A few times I was right on the verge of talking to Sheila about it, but it’s not an easy matter to broach, even with someone you’re close to. I was concerned she might resent my interfering. So I’d convince myself it was probably all my imagination anyway, that Sheila must be accident prone—which is what she claimed. And I’d go along with her when she told me she slipped in the kitchen and hit her face on the counter. And that her arm was messed up like that because some kid on a bicycle rammed into her. Still, I think that deep down I knew the truth right from the start. And I should have said something. Believe me, I’m not very proud that I didn’t.”
“When was the last time you noticed any bruising?” Lou asked.
“Come to think of it, it’s been a while. I don’t remember seeing anything after the summer. Or maybe the early fall.” And now Doris’s eyes narrowed, and there was something very close to hostility in the look she passed between Lou and me. “Listen, if you two have got it in your heads that Sheila had Frank shot because he battered her, it doesn’t hold up. In the first place, the idea of murder would never in a million years even occur to her.” (I had, of course, heard this same sentiment expressed with respect to half a dozen killers I could name.) “Secondly,” Doris went on, “Sheila could have just picked up and left Frank if she wanted out of the marriage. She’s a very talented lady, so there wouldn’t have been any problem about making it on her own. Besides, her parents have plenty of money, in case you weren’t aware of it.” (Now, this contention of hers I had to take seriously—particularly since it had occurred to me, too.)
“Why do you think she stayed with him, then?” I was curious to find out if her take was the same as Marilyn Vincent’s.
“I’ve asked myself the same question hundreds of times. That’s one reason I sometimes thought I might be imagining the abuse. There are certain things in a marriage that can be pretty devastating. But letting yourself be used as a punching bag when it would be easy enough to remove yourself from the situation, well . . . And it wasn’t even as if there were any children to consider.”
I can’t say for certain if it was the poignant expression that appeared on the woman’s face at that instant or simply the way she said “children,” but once again I found myself wondering about the Shippman marriage. “Do you have children yourself, Mrs. Shippman?” I had absolutely no inkling that it was going to sneak through my lips.
“Why do you want to know?” she demanded sharply.
“Uh, no reason. Just being conversational.” I smiled. “Or maybe I should say nosy. You certainly don’t have to give me an answer.”
“I’m sorry,” Doris responded. “I’m a little tense lately, that’s all—the murder and everything. I only found out from Sheila Saturday night that it was premeditated. At any rate, I have no problem with answering you. I’ve got one child—a son. He’s seventeen.”
Doris Shippman looked far too young to be the mother of a boy that age. And my surprise must have been evident. “I had Danny the summer after I graduated from high school,” she informed me.
“By the way, Mrs. Vincent was finally planning to leave her husband. Did you know that?” Lou asked then.
It was obvious the news was a surprise to Doris. “She never said a word.”
I followed up with, “Mrs. Shippman, could your friend have been seeing another man?”
“Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much.”
“Do you think that if she was, she’d have told you?”
“Maybe and maybe not. Sheila can be pretty close mouthed. But as far as taking a lover? Well, considering the sort of person she is, I’m just about positive there was nothing to tell.”
“What about the victim?” Lou said. “Any idea if he might have been in a relationship?”
“Sheila never talked about anything like that, and that’s the only way I would have heard about it. Frank and I didn’t even know the same people—outside of the neighbors and a few family members, I mean. The fact is, I was rarely in his company.”
Lou appeared to be slightly puzzled. “Even with you and his wife being so close?”
“We usually got together just the two of us, Sheila and I. About once a week—normally on Wednesdays, Frank’s late night at the office—we would have dinner out. Very often we’d catch a movie afterward, too, or go bowling or something. And some mornings we would have coffee—either here or at Sheila’s—before I had to leave for class. I’ve gone back to school, would you believe?”
“Oh? What are you studying?” Lou inquired politely.
“I’m taking a course in interior design.”
I made an obvious point of checking out the surroundings, then complimented Doris on her taste before moving on. “Ever hear of a man named Ron Whitfield?”
“I don’t think so. Wait a minute. That’s Sheila’s brother-in-law, isn’t it? I met him last summer at a barbecue of Sheila’s. What does he have to do with anything?”
“Mrs. Vincent was engaged to him at one time.”
“Sheila?”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
Doris’s eyes narrowed in concentration, and I could almost see her pulling something to the forefront of her mind. “I did wonder, though . . .”
“Wonder what?”
“There was something in the way he looked at her.”
“And what about the way she looked at him?” Lou wanted to know.
“I can’t say I noticed anything special there.”
“This barbecue—when was it?”
“Let’s see, I had just come back from visiting my mother in Ohio. That would mean it had to be the end of July.”
And from me: “Are you aware that Whitfield and his wife have since separated?”
“So I understand.”
“Would you have any idea when that took place?”
It was a couple of seconds before Doris’s grudging: “Around Labor Day, I think.”
Soon after the barbecue!
For a brief time nobody said anything further. And then Lou inched forward in his chair, which I took as an indication he was ready to terminate our visit. But before getting to his feet he glanced over at me, his raised eyebrows a way of saying, “Anything else you’d like to ask?”
There was. “Oh, one other thing. We’d also like to talk to your husband. Is he at home, by any chance?”
“No, he’s at work.”
“When do you expect him?”
Doris’s face colored. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. Listen, why don’t I give you his card, and you can get in touch with him at the office. I think that would be best.” Clearly uncomfortable with her inability to provide a more definitive response, she found it necessary to add, “Andy frequently becomes so caught up in his business that he even forgets to call and let me know if I should hold dinner for him.” Somehow she managed an indulgent smile. “Men,” she said.
“That’s a lady with troubles,” I commented as we walked down the porch steps.
Lou was attempting to stuff Mr. Shippman’s business card into an already overstuffed wallet.
He looked up, perplexed. “What makes you think so?”
I was amazed at this failure to pick up on what couldn’t have been more apparent. Shaking my head in disbelief, I borrowed my response from Doris Shippman. “Men,” I said.
Chapter 17
Would you believe there was still no answer at Sheila’s when we rang the doorbell again?
Lou and I toyed with the idea of talking to a few more of the neighbors. Maybe Sheila would return in the interim. But we soon decided that at least one of the occupants of every residence would very likely be at his or her job at this hour, and we’d only have to come by a second time. So we unanimously voted against it. Also, we wisely opted not to hang around and wait for the widow any longer. I mean, who knew when she’d finally turn up?
We slid a second note under her door, asking that she contact us at the station house. And then after dropping into a local deli for some much-needed sustenance, we returned to home base.
“Why don’t we try to get Shippman now?” I asked as we walked to the back of the main room, heading for our respective offices.
“Good idea.” Lou stopped just where he was and extracted his bulging wallet from his pants pocket. Next came the tough part. In his attempt to locate Shippman’s phone number, he pulled out business card after business card, along with crumpled message slips and what looked suspiciously like old shopping lists. Naturally, a good portion of the wallet’s contents ended up on the floor. He glanced at me sheepishly before bending to scoop them up. “Maybe I’d better do this in my office, huh?”
About ten minutes later, he marched into my cubicle, tossing Shippman’s card on my desk. “It was a tough fight, Ma,” he said, smiling.
I picked up the card. It read “Shippman and Reid, Inc., Exclusive Furniture Designs, Andrew Shippman, President.” There were two telephone numbers below the name.
“See if you can reach him, huh, Desiree? I’ve got a couple of things to do that probably should take precedence.”
“Sure. Okay if I try and set something up for tonight?”
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 9
