“Da Silva called here the night Frank lost the election. I was just coming in from the kitchen when Frank picked up the phone. I heard him say, ‘We gave him a run for his money, though, didn’t we, Vito?’ Or something like that. Anyway, whatever the exact words were, it became clear to me at that moment that Vito da Silva had been backing Frank all along.”
“Did you speak to your husband about the call?” I asked.
“No. I pretended I hadn’t heard anything of the conversation.”
“Why is that?”
“The timing wasn’t what I considered ideal. Frank had just lost an election, Detective Shapiro—one he had absolutely no chance of winning, but still, he didn’t exactly take defeat in his stride.”
“He . . . umm . . . I understand he could get physically abusive sometimes.” I want you to know that I said this in a very kindly tone. After all, living with someone under circumstances like this must have been a horrendous ordeal for the woman. Plus, it was an aspect of her marriage she had taken great pains to conceal, even from her closest friends. So it was only common decency that I tread lightly here. I mean, just because I wasn’t Sheila Vincent’s number-one fan didn’t mean I had to behave like a complete shit.
She colored, and her lower lip began to tremble. “How did you find out about that?”
“It’s not important,” I responded, also in a kindly tone. Looking at Sheila now, I felt genuine sympathy for her. (I’ve mentioned, haven’t I, what a marshmallow I am?)
The sigh seemed to come straight from her toes. “Well, however you learned about it, it’s true,” she murmured. “Every once in a while Frank would . . . he would turn on me. To be honest, I never even had the chance to ask him about da Silva that night. You see, that’s when the beatings began. Apparently all this anger and disappointment he was feeling were more than he could deal with, and he needed to let off steam. Unfortunately, he chose to do it with his fists.” She gave me a crooked little grin. “After that first incident, though, it didn’t take much of anything to set him off.”
“But you still didn’t leave him,” I pointed out gently.
“I was going to. But before I got around to it, my father had a very serious stroke—for a while there, the doctors weren’t too sure he’d make it. And the only thing I had on my mind for many months was my dad’s recovery. And then once he was pretty much out of the woods, I had to work up the courage to speak to him about my intention to separate from Frank. I’d reached the point, though, where I planned on discussing this with him the very next weekend. And that’s when I had a visitor.”
“Visitor?” Lou and I said in unison.
“Out of the blue, Vito da Silva showed up on my doorstep one morning last summer. It seems Frank had run to him about my planning to leave, and da Silva came to persuade me to hold off for a couple of years, until after the next United States congressional election.”
The nerve! “Naturally, you didn’t go along with that.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
I was incredulous. “You’re kidding!”
Sheila’s mouth twisted into a reasonable facsimile of a smile. “As they say, the man made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Which was?” Lou asked.
“Look, Lieutenant, everyone’s under the impression that my family has this inexhaustible supply of money. But my father’s illness was terribly costly. For an extended period of time he had private care around the clock. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not implying that my parents are in desperate financial straits—they’re still a long way from broke—but their expenses were way above what the insurance company would pick up. And it’s made a sizable dent in their bank account.”
Lou scratched his head. “And da Silva was going to help them out?”
“No, not that,” Sheila answered, laughing. “You see, I used to have my own catering service—with Marilyn, Frank’s cousin—which Frank insisted I give up when we married. I had hoped to go back into that same business again after we split. But at this point I wasn’t sure anymore if I’d be able to swing it. I’d received a great deal of financial assistance from my parents when I started my first company, but I wouldn’t allow myself to go to them again—not under the circumstances. And I really don’t have that much money in my own right. Then along came da Silva with a proposition for me.”
I realized now that for quite a while I’d been holding my breath. I let it out.
“He told me,” Sheila went on, “that if I’d agree to put off moving out of the house until the election was over, he’d provide the funds I need for my new company. He also said he was aware that my husband has been violent with me—I was stunned that Frank had admitted this to him—and he swore he’d see to it that I was never abused again.”
“But two more years of remaining with a man who’s smacked you around like that!”
“Detective Shapiro, I’m a very practical woman. And da Silva was promising me an extremely generous sum to launch my business—a sum that far exceeded anything I could even have expected from my parents. And to gild the lily, he also assured me he’d see to it the ‘right element’ utilized my services. By the way, I don’t imagine you’re aware of it, but da Silva knows some pretty important people—and I’m not referring to gangsters, either.”
“So you agreed to remain in the marriage,” I summed up.
“Temporarily,” Sheila amended. “When I told you on Saturday that I intended to divorce Frank, I meant it. It was only a matter of putting the breakup on hold for a while.”
“And how were things with you and Frank working out under this new arrangement?” Lou wanted to know.
“Not as bad as you might think. My husband was given orders to keep his hands to himself, orders he didn’t dare disregard. You see, da Silva had stipulated that if Frank so much as laid a finger on me, I had his blessing to get out of there—and he’d still live up to his part of the agreement. Well, as you can appreciate, da Silva would not have been terribly pleased if Frank had caused him to forfeit so much money.
“But setting that aside, it was Frank’s dream to hold public office. And he was willing to do anything in order to become what he termed ‘a player.’ Which—now that he was preparing to run again—meant being extra-cautious about how he conducted himself. After all, it could have been fatal to his career if people began to suspect that he was into wife beating. At any rate, after da Silva’s intervention, the situation was tolerable, at least, since from then on we pretty much stayed out of each other’s way in the privacy of our home. Although in public, naturally, we were Mr. and Mrs. Loving Couple.”
And here I’d come full circle, having just been jolted—at this reference to the deceased’s flaming ambition—into remembering why we were there today.
“Lieutenant Hoffman and I started to ask you before—do you think your husband might have been dealing drugs?” Of course, in view of Franks aspirations, I was at a loss as to how the woman could pretend there was any validity whatsoever in this theory. Yet somehow I didn’t doubt that she would.
“I don’t know. Anything’s possible, I guess.”
See? What did I tell you? “Wouldn’t it have been pretty foolhardy, though, in view of how determined he was to succeed in politics? As you said only a couple of minutes ago in relation to your domestic situation, his plans to run for office again made it imperative he behave himself.”
Confronted with her own logic, Sheila backed off. But she seemed to take forever to spit out the words. “I suppose,” she finally conceded, “that you do have a point there.”
Chapter 20
Why hadn’t my client mentioned this bribe of his to me, anyway?
I took a stab at answering my own question. Because he didn’t feel that it negated Sheila’s being involved in the murder, and he didn’t want it to influence me. Yes, that was probably it. He needn’t have been concerned, though. I was still a long way from absolving the woman.
At this point Lou an
d I were standing on the sidewalk in front of a pale yellow house two doors away from the Vincent place, trying to sort things out.
“Now that Vincent’s deceased,” Lou observed, “da Silva’s proposition is most likely void. After all, Frank and Sheila only stayed together a few extra months before the shooting.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re right about that. Maybe da Silva will give her something—assuming he’s satisfied that she wasn’t responsible for the murder. But I doubt that she’ll be receiving the bonanza she was looking forward to.”
“Under the circumstances, then, Sheila Vincent had every reason not to have Frank iced. Unless,” Lou said, a thoughtful expression on his face, “she stood to score pretty big from his death. We’ll have to find out whether the guy left a will.”
“And if he did, we should also try to learn if—and when—she was aware of it.”
“That, too. At any rate, if we discover that there was no financial gain here, your favorite suspect may have to come off the list.”
“Hold it a second. You’re not thinking this through, you know.”
“So enlighten me, by all means.”
“Have you considered that Mrs. Vincent might recently have met someone rich enough to make it unnecessary for her to remain with her husband? Or that she might have decided to take advantage of Mommy and Daddy’s generosity after all? Or even that she could have reached the stage where she just wasn’t able to tolerate living with that son-of-a-bitch a minute longer, no matter what?”
For a few moments Lou didn’t say a word. Then, after apparently reviewing the situation in his mind, he came around. “I suppose any one of those alternatives is conceivable.” He hesitated now. “But, of course, none of them explains why Sheila Vincent wouldn’t have taken the easy way out and just picked up and left the slob.”
“I know,” I admitted glumly. Suddenly, in a matter of seconds, one possibility did occur to me. “Maybe it was revenge. Maybe she was finally paying him back for all those punches he’d thrown at her.”
“Could be,” Lou conceded. He grinned good-naturedly. “Okay. Even if the widow doesn’t wind up filthy rich, she stays on the list.”
“Umm, about that drug business. You can see, can’t you, why there’s very little chance the victim was into anything like that?”
Lou apparently found it difficult to relinquish a theory of his, no matter how many holes had been poked in it. (Which, to be honest, is something I can definitely relate to.) “Oh, I don’t know,” he began. “Maybe Vincent—”
“Listen, Lou, being elected to public office meant everything to him. He even gave up his favorite pastime—batting his wife around—because he was becoming active in politics again. And when did he start with that physical stuff anyway? As soon as he was defeated for the state assembly.”
It was a moment before Lou spoke. “You’re probably right. But there is something else we’re going to have to check into.”
“What’s that?”
“The deceased had himself some pretty rough playmates.” Uh-oh. My stomach did a somersault. I didn’t like where this was headed. “Mmm,” was as much of a response as I was going to provide.
“You’ve heard of Vito da Silva before, I presume.”
I answered cautiously. “Hasn’t everyone?”
“And Joe Maltese?”
“Not until tonight,” I told him truthfully.
“He’s pretty high up in da Silva’s organization.”
“Are you saying you believe da Silva or Maltese had a hand in Frank Vincent’s death?”
“No, I’m not. But I’m not discounting it, either, especially where Maltese is concerned. At any rate, it’s worth investigating. Trust me, Desiree, you rub one of those guys wrong, and you’re history.”
“Vincent needed those two, though,” I reminded him. “So it’s not very likely he would have antagonized them—either of them. That’s especially true when you consider the man’s legendary charm.”
“But that could actually have worked against him,” Lou retorted. “Let’s suppose Vincent ingratiated himself with da Silva to the point where Maltese—or, for that matter, any of those other outstanding citizens affiliated with da Silva—came to resent him. What would the offended party do? Go to Vito da Silva and complain about being neglected? Fat chance. Anyone who wanted to cool this friendship—or whatever it was—between Vincent and his boss would have had to take out our Frankie to accomplish it.”
Now, I’ve watched enough TV to know a thing or two about how wiseguys practice their craft. “But this has none of the earmarks of a mob hit,” I countered.
Lou was extra-patient with his explanation, speaking slowly as though to one who is mentally challenged. “If you were tied in with da Silva and you did someone close to him, would you want to give him reason to suspect that a member of his own little fraternity might have pulled the trigger?”
“So if one of da Silva’s people was responsible, he’d go out of his way not to make it appear to be a mob hit.”
“She’s got it! My gawd she’s got it!” Lou exclaimed in a truly pathetic Professor Higgins imitation. He continued more seriously. “That would fit in, too, with the perp’s attempt to make it look like the homicide stemmed from a robbery.”
“I guess that’s a viable scenario,” I said, my stomach taking residence in my throat. True, I’d already rejected the lovely picture Jackie had painted in the event I had to inform Vito da Silva that the perpetrator was a member of his own family (all that television watching had also clued me in to this particular application of the word “family”). Still, I found myself recalling it now.
“Well, we’re going to have to pay Maltese a little visit soon, aren’t we?” Lou said, starting up the walkway of the pale yellow house.
I caught up to him. “Sure.” It was hard to feign any enthusiasm about this prospect, however. But on the positive side, I reminded myself that at least he was leaving my client out of it.
“Of course, I haven’t abandoned the idea it was da Silva himself who was responsible for the hit,” he informed me. “I certainly wouldn’t put it past him.” He anticipated my protest. “Listen, the guy might have had his own reasons for wanting it to seem like Vincent’s death occurred during a robbery.” Lou stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The problem is, I haven’t been able to figure out why da Silva would order his good buddy whacked.”
Well, I could be thankful for that much, at any rate. And then Lou threw in three additional—and, in my opinion, totally uncalled for—words: “Not yet, anyway.”
We had reached the end of the walkway. But instead of proceeding up the steps of the front porch, Lou stopped abruptly and took hold of my arm. “So what do you think? About the possibility of mob involvement, that is.”
“Well,” I answered halfheartedly, “it does make more sense than the drug thing.”
“Look, Desiree,” he said, his tone slightly defensive, “I’m trying to nail down a motive for this murder. Same as you.” And now he took his shot: “Only I’m not putting all my eggs between the bedsheets.”
Chapter 21
That evening Lou and I got to see most of the neighbors we hadn’t talked to yesterday: the Rossis, the Goodmans, the Raphaels, the Clarks, the Wilsons, and Mrs. Stemple and her two teenage daughters, Ellie and Jean.
It didn’t surprise either of us that much to be told—again and again—how nice “poor” Frank was. But then right after this—and also no big surprise—everyone admitted they barely knew the man.
We posed our usual question about enemies: Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against the victim?
A firm “no” was the unanimous response. Besides, they all informed us, Frank was just so charming that it was almost impossible to believe someone might have wanted him dead.
Sheila? A lovely woman. They were such an attractive pair, and so happy together, too. But a couple of people did add the disclaimer that you could never actually be sure about a thing l
ike that, though, could you?
It goes without saying that no one suspected either of the Vincents of having an affair.
And while we’re on the subject, as far as I was concerned, Gene Rossi—a not-bad-looking architect in his early forties—was, to date, the only conceivable candidate around here for Sheila Vincent’s affections. But Rossi had what would prove to be an airtight alibi: His boss had been over for dinner Wednesday evening.
As for the rest of the Oakview Road males I’d met, each in turn had been quickly discarded as a possible lover to the widow Vincent. Naturally, the reasons varied. (Can you, for example, picture her in a passionate embrace with Marcus Goodman, who had a wart on his nose the size of a baseball?) But the bottom line is that I didn’t find any of them even remotely suited to the role.
We wound up Monday’s interrogations with the Stemples. There was still one house to go, but it was completely dark. I asked Mrs. Stemple if she had any idea when we’d be likely to find someone at home. Before she could respond, Jean Stemple, age thirteen, advised us that the place belonged to Fern Lewis, “an ugly old divorced lady” who spent most of her time traveling back and forth to California, visiting her “ugly cross-eyed daughter.” Which, according to Jean, was undoubtedly where she was right now.
So that was that.
Of course, it shouldn’t be too difficult to catch Fern Lewis between plane trips. But I wasn’t very encouraged about what questioning her would accomplish. Not if her neighbors were any indication.
I communicated my feelings to Lou.
“Don’t be so quick to throw in the towel,” he admonished. “Maybe she’ll be the one with some information for us. Anyhow, you handed everyone your card, right? It’s always possible somebody will think of something and get in touch with us.”
I gave him a black look.
“Hey,” he responded, straining to sound upbeat, “it could happen.”
As usual, when I walked into the apartment later that night, I immediately checked my messages.
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 11
