Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  “Joe Maltese at three. Sounds good to me,” I answered brightly.

  Chapter 30

  Joe Maltese lived in a middle-class neighborhood in Englewood, New Jersey, which is slightly more than a half-hour’s drive from Riverton. His two-story, wood-frame house was the same as every other house on the block, except that his was the brightest: shocking pink.

  Maltese close up seemed even larger than he had at the cemetery. He was maybe six-two and well over two hundred pounds. He had thick, dark hair, huge hands and feet, and a neck about the size of my niece Ellen’s waist. At present he also had a very red nose.

  Mrs. Maltese was a thin blonde in chartreuse Spandex capri-length pants, high heels, and an even higher hairdo. She looked like a caricature of somebody in a Joe Pesci movie.

  The two Maltese progeny, Eddie and Joe, Jr. (who, the boys informed us proudly, were ages four-and-three-quarters and seven-and-a-third, respectively) were sawed-off replicas of their father.

  We were in the living room where Maltese, dressed in a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, was sprawled over a good portion of the avocado cut-velvet sofa, a tissue-strewn coffee table in front of him. “Grab a chair,” he invited, immediately after which he turned to his wife. “Why don’t you start supper?” The tone of his voice led me to appreciate that this bore no actual resemblance to a question.

  “You kiddin’? It’s too early, Joe,” she protested.

  “Not if you’re gonna make me a decent meal, it isn’t. And you’d better be, is all I’m tellin’ you. I’ve had enough already with a lousy little bowl of soup and a coupla pieces of leftover chicken. You never hear of feedin’ a fever?”

  “It’s feed a cold, starve a fever, for your in-foh-mation, Mr. Know Everything,” the woman countered. Nevertheless, she got to her feet and with mincing steps made her exit on her towering heels.

  Now Maltese directed his attention to his sons, both of whom were sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room, faces buried in their comic books. “And you two—get off your heinies, and go play outside. You can use some fresh air, for crissakes.”

  “But it’s supposed to rain soon,” Joe, Jr. whined.

  “So what? You think you’re gonna drown if it begins drizzlin’ a little?”

  “But I still got my cold,” Joe, Jr. protested.

  “Like heck you do. I’m the one who’s got your cold now, thank you very much.”

  When the boys had reluctantly left us, Maltese stated the obvious. “So. You’re here about Frankie’s murder.”

  Lou nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Geez, what a tragedy that was. I just can’t get over it. Frankie Vincent was a helluva sweet guy.” His jaw shot out. “I’d sure love a piece of the son-of-a-bitch who did him.”

  “I suppose you know we’ve discovered that Vincent was deliberately murdered, that somebody wanted the man dead,” Lou told him.

  “Yeah. I heard. Damn shame,” he muttered. “A God damn shame.”

  “You really liked Vincent, I gather.”

  “I thought the world of Frankie, Lieutenant. If there was any justice, he woulda been a state senator today insteada layin’ in the ground in some cruddy cemetery.”

  Lou’s brow furrowed. “I thought Vincent ran for the assembly.”

  “Yeah,” Maltese responded, flushing. “You’re right. Assemblyman’s what I meant.”

  “I understand you were active in his political campaign. How did that come about?” I asked.

  “I volunteered my services. He was the best man for the job, and I wanted to see him get elected. I’ve always been interested in politics.”

  Sure, I said to myself, about as much as I’ve been interested in bungee jumping.

  Lou turned toward me then so Maltese wouldn’t notice his grin. Funny how, until that moment, I hadn’t been aware of what a really cute grin my partner had.

  “Do you know of anyone who might have had a grudge against Mr. Vincent?” I put to the mobster. “Anyone in your organization, for instance?”

  “Organization? I’m not in no organiz—” Maltese’s nose twitched, and he sniffled a couple of times. He tried again. “Organ—” The denial was interrupted by a sound that seemed to have originated in his toes. It was one of the loudest sneezes I’d ever heard. He made a halfhearted attempt to cover his mouth, but since this was a split-second after the eruption had already occurred, he sprayed most of the immediate vicinity. And while I managed at the last minute to jerk back from the line of fire, Lou hadn’t fared as well. When I looked over, he was grabbing a handkerchief out of his pocket and frowning down at his pant leg. I wasn’t keen on witnessing the mop-up operation, so I went back to concentrating on Maltese.

  “You were attempting to say that you weren’t in any organization.”

  There was a slight delay while Maltese honked into a fistful of tissues half a dozen times. “That’s right. Listen, I’m a building contractor, in business for myself. Period.”

  “Okay, so you’re an independent contractor,” Lou conceded sarcastically. “But that hasn’t affected your ears, has it? Sometimes even independent contractors hear things.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Who had it in for Frank Vincent? And if you were as fond of the deceased as you’ve been claiming,” he added quickly, “you’ll give us a straight answer.”

  “I don’t know nothing, honest to God.”

  “You’re acquainted with Vito da Silva, I believe,” Lou brought up now.

  Maltese’s eyes darted around the room, as if searching for some assistance. Then he responded carefully, “I’ve met the man.”

  “Well, was there anyone close to da Silva who resented Vincent, who maybe was jealous of the relationship there?”

  “How would I know a thing like that? Like I keep trying to make you unnerstand, I’m in—”

  “Yeah,” Lou mocked, “in business for yourself. We got that.”

  “It’s the truth,” Maltese maintained lamely.

  Nobody was more surprised to hear my next words than I was. But they slipped out before I could stop them. “Can the crap, will you? We thought you wanted to help.”

  “I do,” Maltese insisted. “But as far as I know, everyone liked Frankie. I swear.”

  Now, as much as I’d have preferred to not even be here, the fact remained that I was here—and I was obligated to wring as much information from Maltese as I could. “No one in the organization felt he was being pushed aside by this new guy with a college degree—you, for instance?” I persisted.

  “You got some mouth on you, lady. Anybody ever tell you that? And how many times I gotta repeat it? I’m not in no organization.”

  “Of course you’re not,” I agreed in this saccharine tone. “So I don’t imagine you’d mind my asking where you were between six and eight the night Vincent was shot.”

  “Why should I mind? Was—” That was as far as he got before being interrupted by another sneeze. This one was a lot lower on the Richter scale than its predecessor, and I was pleased to note that Maltese’s hand even made it to his mouth on time. “That was a week ago yesterday, wasn’t it?” he inquired a second or two later.

  I verified that it was.

  “Well, I was right here with the ball and chain.” I fixed a withering glare on the man, which he appeared not to notice. “Why don’t you ask her? Terri!” he bellowed.

  “That’s okay,” Lou told him resignedly. “No need to bother Mrs. Maltese. I have no doubt she’ll confirm that. In fact, it’s the surest bet on the boards.”

  Chapter 31

  It was the first day since I began looking into Frank Vincent’s murder that I would be getting home at a decent hour.

  When Lou and I returned to Riverton at around five-fifteen, I’d considered going back into the office and spending some more time on my notes. But I suddenly realized that it wouldn’t be any great catastrophe if I loosened my grip on that whip I’d been holding over my head. Not if I didn’t make a habit of it, at any rate.
>
  “Ditto,” Lou announced when I informed him of my intention to cut out early. “You know what my regular shift is, Dez? In the event that you don’t, it’s eight to four. Although ever since I got involved in a high-profile murder investigation with some pushy little redhead, I’ve been putting in a few extra hours.” The few was emphasized just enough so I’d recognize the irony of the word. Then pulling up alongside my car to let me out, he cracked, “Now, don’t go feeling guilty later about only working the same kind of hours most of the rest of America does. Promise me, huh?”

  I dropped my Chevy at the garage and made straight for D’Agostino’s. My refrigerator had been crying out for reinforcements for almost a week now, the tomatoes having become squishy-soft, the Swiss cheese moldy, and the lettuce slimy and tinged with brown. And then yesterday the milk turned sour.

  This really wouldn’t do.

  When I was through schlepping up and down the aisles, my shopping cart was filled to overflowing with edibles, along with a couple of other things it makes sense to keep around the house. You know, like soap and toilet paper. Then after being assured that my purchases would be delivered within the hour, I headed for my apartment.

  I had already planned what to have for supper. The other evening I’d unearthed a package of macaroni and cheese, which had somehow found its way to the back of the freezer where it had hidden—most likely for at least a month—under a bag of French fries. I took it out now. I didn’t really feel much like eating, which was surprising. (In my case that sort of thing happens less frequently than a solar eclipse.) But macaroni and cheese being one of my many weaknesses food-wise, I was certain that as soon as the dish was sitting in front of me, fragrant and piping hot, I’d be unable to resist it.

  I was wrong.

  I had three or four forkfuls, then pushed the plate away.

  I couldn’t remember the last time my appetite had let me down like this. Maybe it was the stress of the investigation. Or it could be I was plain exhausted; yes, that must be it. Anyhow, it was no big deal. I’d just have a cup of coffee—as soon as D’Agostino’s came through with the milk, that is.

  Fifteen minutes after my groceries arrived I was sitting at the table, reading the New York Times and drinking my horrendous brew. What a shame that my culinary talents—which, setting aside false modesty, I’m pleased to say are considerable—don’t extend to coffee making. Anyway, I’d only had two or three sips when the phone rang.

  “Dez! I was sure you wouldn’t be in yet, but I figured I had nothing to lose by trying. How are you? And how’s everything going?”

  “Fine. And fine. How’s L.A.?”

  “To use what seems to be the operative word, L.A.’s fine, too,” Al answered, chuckling. “Apart from the fact that I miss you, of course.”

  I gulped. “I miss you, too.” Well, I would, I knew, if I’d even had time to think about anything like that lately. “When do you expect to be back?”

  “On Sunday. Listen, I’m really sorry I couldn’t give you a call yesterday, but my brother and sister-in-law dragged me off to an engagement party, and we didn’t get home until after three a.m.”

  “Oh, I understand.” What else could I tell him—that until this very moment I wasn’t even aware that I hadn’t heard from him last night? “How’s your family?” I inquired hurriedly.

  “Everyone’s great. My nephew Brian is four now. It’s been a year since I last saw him, and the difference is amazing. He’s become a real person. But I don’t want to brag, so enough about my handsome, lovable, and absolutely brilliant nephew. Tell me how the investigation’s coming. Making any progress?”

  “None. I’ve been busy questioning everyone and their Aunt Fanny, but so far I haven’t seen any results. We’re exploring an entirely new theory now, though—Lou’s idea. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned him, but Lou’s this lieutenant the police assigned to work with me on the case. Anyhow, I’ll explain it all to you in person.”

  “All right. But just be careful, Dez. And by the way, I can’t wait to see you.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, either.”

  Okay. What would you have said?

  I was still sipping that same cup of coffee when the phone rang again. I picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Hello,” I said again.

  Someone clicked off in my ear.

  Obviously, it was a wrong number, but I hate it—don’t you?—when people don’t have the courtesy to say they’re sorry when they make a mistake like that. I mean, it wouldn’t take more than an extra second or two, for God’s sake, to show a little class. I had to remind myself to unclench my teeth before I could resume my coffee-sipping.

  Now, no dire thoughts occurred to me immediately, but after a while, when I put aside the newspaper, my pesky, freewheeling imagination kicked in. Suppose, the damn thing demanded, it wasn’t a wrong number at all. Maybe that call was from someone interested in learning if you were home tonight.

  I decided that the idea wasn’t totally far-fetched. Only this afternoon Lou and I had interrogated a known mobster. And it was plausible that he might have been disturbed enough about coming under suspicion to be keeping tabs on me.

  Looking back, I feel that a lack of nourishment contributed at least in part to this weakening of my brain. But anyhow, propelled by my newly emerged paranoia, I made it to the front door at a speed worthy of citing in the Guinness Book of World Records. It was a tremendous relief to verify that all three of the locks were locked.

  After a pit stop at the coffee maker, I sat down at the kitchen table again. It was really unseemly—no, ridiculous —for someone in my line of work to have such a yellow liver. It wasn’t like me to get this spooked, either. (Which is not to imply that you should expect to read in the newspapers about my getting an award for bravery any time soon.) Perhaps, I speculated ominously, it was a premonition. I shook my head in irritation. Forget Maltese. At this rate I could end up scaring myself to death.

  Forcing myself to think about something else, I settled on Lou. This afternoon he’d said something in jest about my feeling guilty. Well, I did feel guilty. Only not about quitting work at a reasonable time for once, but about how I’d been running him ragged, too. It wasn’t fair. After all, he wasn’t getting any nice, fat check to hunt for Frank Vincent’s killer. But what choice did I have? I—

  The downstairs buzzer sounded, and I jumped about two feet, sloshing coffee all over the table.

  I spoke into the intercom in a quivery voice. “Yes?”

  “It’s me.”

  Whew! This initial reaction, however, was quickly followed by concern. I didn’t remember Ellen’s ever having dropped in out of the blue like this before . . .

  “Can Mike and I come up for a few minutes?”

  . . . and I knew she and Mike never did.

  I bit my lip. What was this about, anyway?

  Chapter 32

  Ellen pushed past me into the room, her face flushed, her eyes a little wild looking. I stepped aside so Mike could follow her in, then immediately closed and relocked the door.

  “What’s going on?” I asked nervously.

  Ellen stuck out her hand—the left one. I stared at it. There, adorning the third finger, was a dazzling pear-shaped diamond. It must have been at least a carat. (I later learned it was slightly over two.)

  “Ellen!” I squealed.

  “Aunt Dez!” she squealed back.

  “Shhh,” Mike cautioned. “Your neighbors’ll think somebody’s being attacked here.”

  But Ellen and I were now too busy hugging and kissing to pay any attention to him.

  When we finally released each other, it was Mike’s turn to be the recipient of my enthusiasm. Grabbing onto his neck—and since he’s well over six feet, I had to stand on my toes to accomplish even this much—I pulled down his face and kissed him fervently about half a dozen times. “I’m just so happy, so happy for you both,” I got in between
smooches.

  I’m not sure if I eventually loosened my hold on him or if Mike managed to wriggle out of my clutches, but once we were apart I started to weep from the sheer joy (and maybe relief) of the occasion.

  Ellen led me over to the sofa, and I sat there, hands covering my face, giving free rein to my feelings. Mumbling something about bringing me a few tissues, Ellen raced to the bathroom and returned with the entire Kleenex box, which she shoved into my hand. Then she plopped down next to me—practically landing in my lap—and draped herself across my shoulders, murmuring some soothing “Aunt Dezes” every so often, while Mike hovered awkwardly nearby.

  I cried for a good couple of minutes. Look, I was entitled to vent. After all, who was it who, on meeting Young Doctor Mike close to three years ago as a result of his bringing me out of a dead faint in the hallway of his apartment building, had surreptitiously checked his ring finger?—and while he was practically still in the act of ministering to me, too. And who was it who subsequently proceeded to inveigle Mike and Ellen into taking a chance on a blind date? And didn’t I also have to endure that angst-producing breakup of theirs? And once they got back together again, hadn’t I been holding my breath just waiting and praying for this moment?

  At any rate, as soon as I’d regained control of myself, I pounced. “Now tell me,” I ordered.

  Ellen was only too pleased to oblige. “We were having dinner tonight at that pretty little Italian place in Chelsea we like so much. We took you there one evening, remember? It’s got this—”

  “Never mind about the restaurant,” I said impatiently.

  “Okay. We had just finished dessert, and we were on our second cup of coffee when Mike took my hand and began playing with my fingers. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but all of a sudden I realized what was happening: He was trying to slip the ring on! I got so flustered I pulled my hand back—I thought I could help.”