Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  The first voice on the answering machine was Al’s. He was sorry to have missed me, he said; I was sorry, too. He was going out now, and he’d call again tomorrow.

  My nervous Nellie of a niece had also phoned. “Why haven’t I heard from you?” she demanded, her tone suggesting she was only a baby step away from panic. “Are you okay? Call me—no matter what time you come in.”

  Now, since I’d spoken to her as recently as Saturday and this was only Monday, and probably also because I was discouraged about how the investigation was proceeding, and due to the fact, too, that I was practically sleepwalking just then, my initial reaction was irritation. But I reminded myself at once that I was lucky Ellen cared enough about me to drive me this crazy. Especially since I’m not even her real aunt. No, that’s not right; I’m real enough. But, as I believe I’ve already told you, we’re only related by marriage—my late husband Ed and my sister-in-law Margot, Ellen’s mother, having been siblings.

  I glanced at my watch. It was after twelve-thirty, which meant it was way past Ellen’s bedtime. But she had left word to call her whenever I got home. So, shrugging, I picked up the phone.

  “Mmmf. Hello?” said the voice of someone who had obviously been summoned out of a sound sleep.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ellen. I woke you, didn’t I?”

  “Well,” she admitted, embarrassed, “I suppose I did kind of doze off for a time—but only for a few minutes. I was watching this dumb show on TV while I was waiting for you to phone, and I guess that’s what did it. I was really worried about you, though,” she put in hastily.

  “I know that.” I mean, Ellen wouldn’t be Ellen if she didn’t worry herself sick on occasion. Even though—as I mentioned before—since Mike, she takes things a lot more in stride than she used to. To give you some idea: The old Ellen would probably have left three messages on my machine tonight. And she’d never have been able to fall asleep before I got back to her—regardless of how dumb that television program was.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I wanted to find out if everything was all right.”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “How are you doing with the investigation?”

  “Not as well as I’d like. I still don’t have a clue as to the identity of the killer.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Ellen retorted. “What do you expect? You’ve only been on the case a few days. That gangster client of yours—he isn’t giving you a hard time or anything, is he?”

  “Don’t be silly.” But I thought of Lou’s theory that the perpetrator might be one of da Silva’s “associates.” And again my stomach—the only part of my entire anatomy with the least bit of athletic ability—did one of its acrobatic things. “Mr. da Silva has been very nice,” I added to reassure her.

  “I still don’t like the idea of—”

  Attempting to divert her, I switched to her favorite topic. “How’s Mike?” I asked.

  “Great.” But for once, Ellen didn’t enumerate his many virtues. Or even update me on their recent and forthcoming activities. Instead, she wanted to know if Al had phoned me from Las Vegas.

  “I spoke to him last night,” I said offhandedly. I didn’t mention tonight’s message—or Saturday’s—because I was concerned that she’d put too much stock in the fact he was calling so frequently.

  Apparently my withholding this information didn’t make all that much difference. “So?” she demanded eagerly.

  I had no difficulty interpreting the question. “So we’ll see. It’s too soon to tell yet where things are headed. If I were you, though”—and now there was a touch of sarcasm in my tone—“I wouldn’t start shopping for my flower-girl dress yet.”

  Not finding this a particularly satisfying response, Ellen attempted to establish a backup to Al. “And how is that cute partner of yours?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Ellen! I told you last time that Lou Hoffman is not cute. Repeat, not. He is, however, a very capable police officer. Which is all I’m interested in.”

  “Okay, okay. I must have misunderstood you.”

  Or, more likely, tuned me out. Ellen sometimes has a tendency to hear things as she’d prefer them to be.

  “Look,” I pointed out, “it’s one o’clock already. I think we should call it a night. Or, I should say, a morning.”

  “Ohhh, you’re right. I had no idea it was that late. Uh, Aunt Dez?”

  “What?”

  “I did only doze off for a few minutes. Honestly.”

  Chapter 22

  It was a cold, rainy, thoroughly miserable morning. The kind that always makes me long to crawl back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep until I’m all slept out. (Which should take me to the early afternoon, at the very least.)

  But I rarely play hooky. And even if I did, this was definitely not the day to do it.

  Because today, on Vito da Silva’s orders, I was going to be attending Frank Vincent’s funeral.

  Driving out to the station house was no picnic. At one point the rain was pelting the windshield with such ferocity that the wipers were next to useless. I could hardly see even a couple of feet in front of me. Hunched over the steering wheel, my neck thrust forward like a turtle’s, I quickly went from mild anxiety to a barely controllable urge to bite my nails up to the elbow. I finally concluded that the smart thing to do would be to pull over for a while. Which was the precise moment the torrent tapered off to a drizzle.

  Able to focus a portion of my attention on something other than the road now, I began to ponder—for probably the hundred-and-first time—what Sheila Vincent’s motive could have been for having her husband killed.

  Maybe, as Lou suggested, greed had played at least a part in the Vincent homicide. I wondered how lucrative the victim’s practice had been. And if there was a will. What about insurance? We would definitely have to look into the financial situation here.

  It was not long after this that I started to have second thoughts about that revenge thing I’d suggested to Lou. I mean, while it was certainly feasible Sheila might have decided to pay back her spouse for all those beatings she’d endured, I couldn’t quite convince myself to buy into this.

  Sure, if he’d blackened her eye and she’d turned around and crowned him with a coffee pot right then and there, that I could see. But to calmly arrange for his murder . . . Listen, the woman was clever enough to appreciate that in light of Frank’s political ambitions, there was an easier way to extract her pound of flesh. All she had to do was let it be known that she was divorcing the creep because he kept belting the bejesus out of her. Unless, of course, Sheila was afraid da Silva might retaliate in some way for her bad-mouthing his protégé. I guess that did make a revenge shooting more plausible—as long as it couldn’t be laid on her doorstep, that is.

  I permitted myself to relax for close to five whole minutes now. After which I was off on another tack entirely.

  Suppose—just suppose—that Sheila’s lover was a man she merely pretended to be interested in so that she could induce him to do her the small favor of removing her husband. Where would that leave me? I mean, here I’d been knocking myself out trying to determine who might be a suitable sweetie for this lady, and there was a chance she might just have settled for the most pliant guy she could find. Oh, God! That could be anyone from her neighbor’s gardener to some kid delivering pizza! (I did, however, still refuse to consider Marcus Goodman and his wart.)

  Wait. I could not think like this. Not if I wanted to keep my suspect list—and my nerves—under control. Sheila was the kind of woman, I told myself, who would regard it as necessary that she be at least somewhat physically attracted to the man she was sharing her bed with.

  With this theory more or less put to rest—for the present, at any rate—I segued into another one that was even more disturbing.

  What if there’d been no lover at all? What if Sheila had paid someone to murder her husband? The thing is, though, where would she have found this someone? There’s no l
isting headed “Assassins for Hire” in the Yellow Pages. And even if she was able to connect with an individual like that, wouldn’t she have been fearful a transaction of this nature could get back to da Silva? There was also another, more personal reason I was reluctant to give this notion any credence. If the killer was a stranger to Sheila—a professional—how in the world would I ever be able to track him down?

  I hastily reassured myself that it was doubtful Sheila would have utilized the services of a hit man. But I had my fingers crossed, nevertheless.

  Suddenly reality struck. Sheila Vincent’s involvement in her husband’s death was far from a certainty. I mean, let’s face it. Lou had come up with another theory that was probably just as viable.

  Still, my money was on the widow.

  I arrived at my temporary office just as my temporary partner was leaving it.

  “I stuck a note on your desk,” Lou explained, “in case I missed you when you came in.”

  “What’s it about?”

  He grinned. “Don’t be so lazy. Go and read it.”

  I gave him the fish-eye, which for once proved to be effective.

  “Okay,” he capitulated. “I spoke to Gene Rossi’s boss a little while ago. The man confirms Rossi’s alibi. Swerdlow—the boss—and his wife got to the Rossis at six-thirty Wednesday evening and stayed until after ten.”

  “Figures,” I bitched into the collar of my navy shirt-waist—a favorite of mine. It really does look exceptionally nice on me—but not too nice for a funeral, if you know what I’m saying. This having been an important consideration when I was getting dressed that morning. Dumb, isn’t it? I mean, I’d be wearing a trench coat, so who would even see it?

  “Hey,” Lou reminded me, “there’s always—what did the Stemple kid call her?—‘the ugly old divorced lady.’ I tried her phone number, by the way, and the answering machine informed me that she’d be out of town until Thursday.” And shifting his mouth over to one side, Lou rolled his eyes heavenward. “Brilliant, huh? The woman’s all but inviting someone to break in and rob her blind. At any rate, I left word for her to contact either you or me ASAP. But listen,” he announced, “if you’re still so gung-ho about attending Vincent’s funeral, we’ll have to be out of here in about a half hour.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

  It had begun to rain fairly heavily again about five minutes after we started for the cemetery. And while driving wasn’t nearly as hazardous as it had been earlier, it was still something of a challenge.

  “I don’t know why we’re doing this,” Lou complained. “It’ll take us about an hour to get to the place—assuming, of course, that we don’t get lost. Which happens to be a distinct possibility, since I’m not even sure how to go. And the odds are a million to one that we’ll learn anything, anyway.”

  “I can’t argue with that. It’s just that I’d feel remiss if I didn’t check it out and see who puts in an appearance.” And here I added sheepishly, “Umm, I really appreciate this, Lou. Honestly. Especially because I know it’s against your better judgment.”

  “Believe it,” he muttered. “Hey, is your client going to be there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “He’d almost have to be, wouldn’t he, if he cared enough about Vincent to hire you?” Lou prodded.

  I hunched my shoulders. Then I realized Lou was focused on the road, so I provided a verbal response. “It’s conceivable.”

  “Well, I’ll have my antennas out for him.”

  I offered a gentle reminder: “Or her.”

  “Nah. It’s a him.”

  “A million to one odds again?” I teased.

  Lou just smiled, and after this we rode in silence for a while. Then, out of nowhere, he hit me with the one question I hoped he’d never ask: “Hey, your client wouldn’t be Vito da Silva, by any chance?”

  For an instant I couldn’t breathe. And it was fortunate Lou was looking straight ahead of him, because I was certain my face must match my hair color. Somehow, though, I brazened it out. “Oh, absolutely. After all, isn’t it only natural that a guy like that—who I assume can afford to employ the biggest, most successful PI firms in the country—would choose some little one-person agency that nobody ever heard of? An agency, I should add, that doesn’t even have much of a track record.” I managed a guffaw. “Come on. Make some sense, will you, Lou?”

  “Da Silva did take a great deal of interest in the deceased. You can’t deny that,” Lou retorted. “And something tells me he has the clout to get the Riverton Police Department to cooperate with you like this.”

  “That might very well be true,” I conceded. And then with feigned reluctance: “Look, I probably shouldn’t even be saying this, but maybe my client is someone with a lot of clout. On the other hand, maybe he—or she—is someone who’s just very tight with a person who has the sort of clout you’re referring to.”

  And now, while he was still attempting to absorb this small “hint,” I was ready with the coup de grâce. Sounding deeply offended—I even injected a tear into my voice (which I was able to pull off very nicely, thanks to those four years in my high school drama club)—I murmured, “I’ve got to tell you, though, Lou, that it hurts you can so much as suggest that I’d work for a man like da Silva.”

  “I’m very sorry, Desiree,” an abashed Lou responded. “I wasn’t thinking. Sometimes my mouth is way ahead of my brain.”

  I was, of course, all generosity and forgiveness. “It’s okay.” I gave him a plucky little smile. “Let’s just forget it.”

  He took me at my word. “So now that we’ve established it wasn’t da Silva, who was it, then? You’ll feel better if you unburden yourself,” he joked. “Trust me.”

  “Forget it, bub. Besides, didn’t you assure me you could find out on your own?”

  “Uh-huh. And I will,” he asserted, grinning. “I was just trying to take a shortcut.”

  Chapter 23

  As soon as we left the car, the downpour, driven by a biting wind now, seemed to double in intensity.

  Lou fought valiantly, and in vain, with an umbrella that was determined to turn itself inside out. We hurried toward the canopy that shielded the rather small group of mourners, the rain relentlessly pounding Lou’s head and rolling straight down my hair, finally coming to rest inside the upturned collar of my trench coat. When we reached the protection of the overhang, we shook ourselves like sheep dogs. For a moment there, I was even tempted to remove my wig—which I almost invariably press into service in nasty weather and which is an exact replica of my own, less adaptable hennaed tresses. I mean, I’d have liked to be able to give that thing the kind of shaking it required. But the cemetery, I reminded myself, was hardly an appropriate venue for wig rehabilitation.

  An earnest young priest had already begun the brief service. Which was perfectly okay with me, since it was really painful to hear someone with the dubious character of the deceased being all but canonized.

  We found a space off to the side, way up front. Standing here, I had a pretty good view of Frank Vincent’s relatives, neighbors, friends, and, very possibly, enemies.

  One thing surprised me. I had expected Frank Vincent’s funeral to be jammed with politicians. But judging from the size of the turnout, there were few, if any, here today. I concluded that apparently Frank wasn’t well-known enough for any photographers to cover his funeral, so why would those political types bother to show?

  I spotted Sheila Vincent practically at once. And I swear that her expression was positively tranquil. The woman didn’t even have the good grace to look like she minded planting her husband.

  There was an older couple flanking Sheila, almost certainly her parents. I had the impression the man wasn’t too steady on his feet, and he had a sickly pallor. Sheila, clutching his arm, appeared to be supporting him on one side, while another attractive blonde was bolstering him on the other side. This second blonde bore a strong resem
blance to the widow, but she was a bit shorter and her face was rounder and slightly puffy, the features less delicately drawn. She was, I decided, not nearly as striking as Sheila. She seemed, too, to lack the other’s presence, her flair. Must be the “bereaved’s” sister, I thought spitefully.

  I glanced quickly at the people around me. Then I whispered to Lou over the priest’s stirring tones, “I wonder which one is Ron Whitfield.”

  “Shhh,” he responded, a finger to his lips.

  “He’s Sheila’s ex-fiancé,” I reminded him.

  “Shhh,” he repeated. “I know.” But a moment later he jabbed me in the ribs. A latecomer was making his way toward the group. “Vito da Silva,” he informed me in a barely audible voice. We both watched as da Silva approached a large, heavy-set man who stood alone, at the rear of the assemblage. “And that’s—”

  “Joe Maltese,” I supplied.

  At this juncture the shushing came from somewhere in back of me. I turned to glare at whoever it was—you can’t imagine how quietly I’d spoken—but no one was even looking in my direction. Coward!

  I returned to examining the crowd.

  As expected, Doris Shippman was here, a tall, fair man to her left. Even though the two weren’t exactly side-by-side—actually, a large shopping cart could have fitted easily into the space between them—I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if this was Mr. Shippman. Not in view of what I’d gleaned about the shape of the Shippman marriage.

  A moment later I noticed Morgan Sklaar, Sheila’s handsome publisher, whose impressive head of silver hair was now completely hidden under a sodden rain hat.

  Marilyn Vincent had come, of course. She caught my eye and smiled fleetingly in recognition. Off to her right was a painfully thin, frail-looking old gentleman in a wheelchair, a tearful middle-aged couple leaning over him from behind. The woman had one hand resting on his shoulder, the other hand dabbing at her eyes. The dazed expression on the octogenarian’s tiny, prunelike face signified he was still in shock.