Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  I inched closer to Lou. “Must be Uncle Gino, Frank’s father,” I murmured, pointing in the old man’s general direction with a toss of my head.

  Lou scowled at me.

  Well, if he wasn’t interested in learning what was what around here, see if I cared. As for me, I’d continue to check out the mourners.

  Many of the neighbors had showed up—the women, at any rate. The only men I spotted from Oakview Drive, though—aside from the could-be-Andrew-Shippman—were Robert Kovacs, Ed Conti, and Marcus Goodman. The others, I assumed, were at work. Which caused me to have some second thoughts as to whether the man standing in Doris Shippman’s general vicinity was her husband after all. I mean, considering how busy Shippman had insisted he was, how could he have managed to tear himself away from his desk?

  And now I resumed the search for Ron Whitfield. “Maybe Whitfield’s that fellow over there with the glasses. Or he could be the man next to the man on Marilyn Vincent’s left.” I said this to Lou in a voice so low that I could barely hear me myself. “Hey, how about that good-looking hunk right in front of the Contis?”

  This time I was treated to two shushes, one from Lou and one from the invisible man—or woman—behind me.

  Chapter 24

  It had been a very long, very hectic part-week. Plus, while expected, the fact that I hadn’t learned a single damn thing by going to that funeral nevertheless had me feeling pretty let down. It would have been an ideal day to go home early and recharge. But Lou and I had one of the last of the Vincents’ neighbors to question. And this guy didn’t exactly make himself readily available to us.

  The instant Andrew Shippman opened the door, I recognized him as the man I’d speculated could be Andrew Shippman at the funeral. We followed him into the den, which was toward the rear of the house. On our way back there, I kept looking around, expecting to see his wife. But she was nowhere in sight.

  “Sit down,” Shippman instructed with a smile. He was a lot more amiable than our previous conversation had led me to expect.

  Lou and I promptly took possession of the sofa, while Shippman remained standing, towering over us.

  He was a giant of a man, six-three at least, with shoulders that made my Al’s look positively puny. His hair was light—almost blond—and he had the bluest eyes, plus teeth that practically shone. And even if his forehead was higher than he probably appreciated and he sported a bit of flab around the middle and his backside was kind of broad for the rest of him, he was still a very imposing figure.

  “I saw you at the cemetery today,” I stated, having to look so far up I got neck strain.

  “My wife insisted that it was only neighborly I attend. Of course, I’ll probably have to put in extra hours at work all week—and I stay late enough as it is. But anything to get the wife off my case.”

  I hoped my face didn’t mirror my irritation. (I really hate the expression “the wife,” don’t you? I mean, it’s only one step above “the little woman,” as far as I’m concerned.)

  “I didn’t see you at the service, though,” Shippman said with a flash of teeth. “I would have remembered if I had.”

  The implied compliment was such a cliché and so patently insincere that it almost made me gag.

  “May I get the two of you something to drink?” he offered.

  Lou and I politely declined, and Shippman settled himself in this wide, maroon-colored recliner, stretching out legs that went on ad infinitum. “What can I do for you, Detectives?”

  Lou kicked off with, “We’d appreciate anything you could tell us about Frank Vincent. How well did you know him?”

  “Not well at all. Listen, I recently opened my own business, and you can probably understand the sort of commitment that requires. It certainly doesn’t leave much time for socializing. The only thing I can say is that Frank seemed to me to be an okay guy—from the limited contact I had with him.”

  “But Mrs. Shippman and Mrs. Vincent are such good friends,” Lou persisted. “The four of you never went out together on weekends?”

  “Very infrequently. I often go into the office on Saturdays and Sundays. And that was true even before I started the new firm.” He bestowed on us what was intended to be an ingratiating smile. “I presume I’m what could be termed a workaholic.”

  “All right. How did the Vincents get along on those rare occasions when you were with them?” Lou demanded, a hint of impatience in his voice.

  “Fine, as far as I could tell.”

  “Are you aware that he beat up on her?” I put in.

  Shippman seemed genuinely surprised. “You’re kidding! I never in a million years would have figured Frank for something like that.”

  Once again my thoughts on the Shippman marriage appeared to have been confirmed. “Your wife didn’t say anything to you about this?” It was actually a rhetorical question.

  Nevertheless, Shippman answered it. “Evidently not.” He bit off the words.

  Lou changed the subject. “Are you aware of anyone—a neighbor, for instance—who might have had a grudge against the victim?”

  “From what little I know, everyone seemed to like him.”

  “And her?” I asked. “Did everyone seem to like her?”

  “Sheila? She appeared to be . . . ahh . . . appreciated, at any rate.” Shippman grinned. It was a grin that I felt bore a definite resemblance to a leer. But I had to admit this might only be my imagination.

  “Do you think someone might have more than just liked Mrs. Vincent?”

  “I wouldn’t have a clue, Detective Shapiro. My wife’s the one to talk to about that sort of stuff. She’s not at home tonight, though.” And then: “I hear the police now believe the murder was premeditated.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I explained about Charlie Ross and the car. “Apparently the killer was sitting there for at least two hours, waiting for Mr. Vincent to come out of his building.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Uh, I wonder if you’d mind telling us where you were between six and eight that evening.” It seemed to be as appropriate a time as any to bring this up.

  Shippman glowered at me. “Just a damn minute!” he bellowed. “What the hell have I got to do with Vincent’s murder?”

  “Most probably nothing.” A small falsehood followed—but only out of necessity. “We’re asking everyone who was even remotely connected with the deceased to furnish us with that information.”

  “Yeah? Well, I wasn’t even remotely connected with him.” But after a short interval, he relented. “Oh, all right, if it will speed up this inquisition. Let’s see . . . Wednesday. I worked late, as I usually do. I think it was about nine o’clock when I went home that night. No, no, that was Tuesday. Now I remember. On Wednesday I had to take care of some last-minute modifications to a couple of pieces in our new line—we make fine furniture. I didn’t get out of there until past midnight.”

  “Can anyone verify this?” Lou wanted to know.

  “Nope,” Shippman answered cheerfully. “My secretary took off a little before five—she had an early date. The other woman in the office quit at five-thirty. Ditto my assistant. And my partner’s in Europe. So you’ll just have to accept my word for it.”

  The next question was, of course, a perfectly natural one. For me, at any rate. “You didn’t send out for food or anything?”

  “No.”

  “If I worked until that hour without any dinner, I’d probably be tempted to chew on a chair leg.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Detective Shapiro,” Shippman remarked sarcastically, but at the same time, his eyes traveled suggestively up and down my body.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Clearly the guy fancied himself a ladies’ man. That was a leer you spotted before, I announced to myself with conviction.

  “When I’m really into a project, my appetite goes on hold,” he explained. “Besides, we have a small fridge in the office, and someone had left half a s
andwich in there, which I appropriated around ten o’clock. It tided me over until I could dig into my wife’s tuna casserole.”

  Lou wanted to know if Shippman had had any telephone calls that night.

  “Are you kidding? The company hasn’t even been in existence six months yet. The truth is, we consider ourselves lucky when the phone rings during the day.”

  “Did you contact someone yourself, by any chance?” I put to him at precisely the same moment that Lou asked, “How about personal calls?”

  “No to both of you. Look, I don’t have an alibi, but as far as I can see, there’s no reason I should need one. As I keep trying to impress on you two, I hardly knew Frank Vincent.” And with this, Shippman rose, signifying an end to his patience—and the interview.

  Lou glanced over at me, and I shook my head—there was nothing else I could think of to cover. And immediately after this exchange of signals, we got to our feet.

  “Detective Shapiro and I appreciate your time, Mr. Shippman,” Lou told him, while engaging in a fierce struggle with his packed-to-exploding wallet. “If you should happen to think of anyone who might have had a vested interest in Mr. Vincent’s meeting his maker or if something else occurs to you, get in touch with us, will you?” Extricating his card at last, he handed it to Shippman, who accepted it without comment.

  We began retracing our steps toward the front door. Our host led the way, with me following directly after him and Lou in last position. Suddenly Shippman dropped back to walk alongside me. He leaned down—way down—to murmur, “You know, Detective Shapiro, you have a very pretty face.”

  Shit! If there’s any expression in the world that makes my skin crawl, it’s that one. I mean, you don’t have to be a clairvoyant to anticipate the message that’s about to be delivered.

  “And when it comes to good-looking women,” Shippman declared, warming up for it, “I’m a connoisseur. I can say that without bragging, too.” Without bragging, my patootie! “Trust me,” he went on. “You’d be a knockout if you took off some weight.”

  I toyed between bringing my foot (and the not inconsiderable poundage behind it) down on his instep or really going all out and kneeing him in the groin. But naturally, I refrained from doing either. In fact, I even managed a tepid little grin. After all, I reminded myself, there was always a possibility—however remote—that the man could end up being of some help in our investigation. If he didn’t turn out to be the perp himself, that is.

  We had almost reached the door when Shippman bent his torso in half again. He favored me with a mega-watt smile, those damn teeth practically blinding me. “In the meantime, we could still have a drink one evening. Why don’t you give me a ring at the office. You have my number.”

  Did I ever!

  Chapter 25

  “What was all that whispering about?” Lou inquired as we walked to his car.

  I skipped the “you have such a pretty face” part of the one-sided conversation I’d just been subjected to. “Shippman invited me to give him a call at his office so we could meet for a drink.”

  “I figured it was something like that. The guy’s scum,” he pronounced.

  “Amen.”

  And now so softly that I doubt if I was meant to hear it: “Fuckin’ scum.” A moment later he said tentatively, “Uh, you’re not, are you?”

  “I’m not what?”

  “You’re not going to call him?”

  “Are you kidding? Just being in the same room with Andrew Shippman makes me want to take a bubble bath in lye.”

  “I can’t say I blame you.”

  Suddenly I got mad. (I frequently have these delayed takes when I’ve been insulted.) “How could you even ask me that?” I demanded shrilly.

  Lou looked just as ashamed as he deserved to be. “You’re right. I should have known better—I did, actually. Listen, it’s not that I thought you’d ever seriously consider going out with him, honestly. It’s just that for a minute there . . . What I mean is, I would hate to see you get involved with garbage like that.”

  I was flattered. He actually sounded as if he had a decent opinion of me. Maybe the talk we’d had at Danny’s the other night had made a difference. Or maybe it was just that I was starting to grow on him.

  I decided he’d been relegated to sackcloth and ashes long enough. “And the nerve of that lousy penny pincher,” I remarked. “All he was offering me was a crummy drink. Now, if he’d at least thrown in a good dinner . . .”

  Lou laughed. “Glad to hear you don’t come cheap.” He unlocked the car, turning to me when we were settled inside. “What made you ask Shippman where he was Wednesday night? Are you thinking he’s the phantom lover?”

  “I’m thinking he could be.”

  “I can’t see it. I can’t see it at all. Not only is Shippman a first-class sleaze, but Sheila Vincent and his wife are very close.”

  “And you’ve never heard of a woman getting involved with a sleaze before? Or betraying her best friend?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “I just feel it’s conceivable that this is the type of guy Sheila would be interested in. And who knows how loyal a friend she is, anyway?”

  “Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s take Doris Shippman out of the picture. I’ve still gotta believe Mrs. Vincent has better sense than to go for someone like Shippman,” Lou insisted.

  I looked at him pityingly. “Sense has nothing to do with it, Lou. Could be the man pushed the right buttons with Sheila.” (He certainly didn’t give her any of that “pretty face” crap.) “And in his own way, Shippman is attractive—until you recognize what a slime he is. Or maybe Sheila is willing to overlook that little character flaw. After all, from what we’ve heard, Frank Vincent wouldn’t allow his wife a great deal of freedom, so her opportunities for meeting men were somewhat limited. If she is playing around, there’s a very good chance it’s with someone close to home. Or with someone she knew before her marriage.”

  “I don’t suppose I can argue with that,” Lou conceded. “But let’s see if I’ve got this right. The only men around here who meet whatever criteria you’ve set up for this lover are the architect—that Rossi fellow—and Andrew Shippman. Am I correct?”

  “Yup. But Rossi has an alibi, while Shippman . . .” I left it to Lou to fill in the blanks.

  He already had the car key in the ignition when he hesitated. “Do you mind if I ask you something, Desiree?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Have you got an alibi for last Wednesday night—say, between six and eight p.m.?”

  “Oh, come on,” I retorted testily. “The only thing I’m saying is that the fact no one can confirm his whereabouts means that it’s possible Shippman murdered Frank Vincent at Sheila’s behest. The reason being—if this was the case—that he’s the one she’s having an affair with.”

  Predictably, Lou dispensed a reminder: “If, that is, Sheila Vincent is having an affair at all.”

  Chapter 26

  The voice on the answering machine was strident, the very first words being, “Why bother checking in with me? After all, so what if I worry about you? Which you, Desiree Shapiro, are very well aware of.” Oh, it’s Jackie. “But forget that,” she ranted on. “I’m also your secretary, in case it’s slipped your mind. And I would think you’d at least want to find out if you’ve received any messages or anything.” There was an almost imperceptible pause. “Umm, you haven’t”—the admission must have been a painful one—“but how could you possibly know that since you haven’t even bothered to call?”

  Jackie continued her harangue for maybe thirty seconds longer—when, mercifully, the machine terminated her in mid-sentence.

  I promised myself I’d phone her sometime tomorrow. It was certainly preferable to coming home to another message like this one.

  The next voice on the tape sounded even more pleasant than usual, very likely as a result of its immediately succeeding Jackie’s assault on my eardrums.

  Al began by
telling me how sorry he was to have missed me again. I nodded abstractedly, almost impatiently, anxious for him to say whatever it was he had to say so I could turn off the machine and get some sleep.

  What was it he was talking about now? Something about this being his last night in Las Vegas? I was so exhausted that I was having trouble concentrating. He clarified things for me a moment later, informing me that he’d be leaving in the morning to visit his brother in L.A. and that he’d get in touch with me from there.

  Well, of course, I regretted that I hadn’t been here for his call. Right then, however, the desire to hug my pillow was a lot stronger than any yearning to put my arms around Al.

  But I guess it’s only natural not to be thinking romantically when it’s a challenge to think at all.

  Da Silva telephoned in the morning, only minutes after I arrived at my current office and just as I was prepped to start working on my notes again.

  “You are able to talk with me now?” the soft, flat voice inquired.

  “No problem. Hold on a minute, though, while I shut the door.”

  “At the funeral—you formed an impression of some kind?” he said when I was back on the phone.

  I wasn’t sure what he was asking, what he hoped I might have learned. Nevertheless, I thought my answer pretty much covered all the bases. “I wish I had.”

  “And have you discovered anything further in the course of your investigation since we last spoke?”

  “We’re still in the process of assimilating the information we’ve been gathering—there were a lot of people to talk to. In fact, Lou and I—he’s the police lieutenant I’ve been partnered with—haven’t gotten to all of them even yet.” As I’m afraid you may soon learn firsthand, I tagged on silently. “I’m glad you called, though, Mr. da Silva.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I need to find out about Frank Vincent’s financial situation. Specifically, his will. Would you happen to know anything about it?”