Suddenly he pulled over to the curb. I sat there puzzled as he jumped out of the car, opened the rear door, and seconds later, tossed the aforementioned Star-Ledger on the seat alongside me.
“Here. One of my two hundred extra copies,” he joked. “You can cut out my picture and tack it up in the bathroom.”
Larkspur Press was located in a converted loft building in downtown Manhattan’s Soho area.
Now, Morgan Sklaar’s being the big mucky-muck in this company, I’d anticipated that his office would be huge and plush. And it was. But the publisher’s inner sanctum was obviously much more than a showplace.
You couldn’t see the top of the imposing mahogany desk—it was so littered with papers. And the “out box” was filled to overflowing. A bookcase took up an entire long wall. This, too, was crammed beyond its intended capacity, with many of the books lying crosswise over other books. There were even two or three books strewn on the cushions of the nubby blue-and-green sofa, which was positioned on the other long wall, opposite the bookcase. While slightly to the right of the sofa, a good portion of the emerald green carpeting was hidden from view by a formidable pile of manuscripts.
Lou and I were presently occupying two small armchairs directly across from Sklaar, who was seated behind his desk. And appraising him from this short distance, I found myself almost in awe of the publisher’s striking appearance. (I can’t even guess how he would have affected me if I actually had a thing for tall, handsome men.)
Although Sklaar was most likely in his sixties, or not very far away, his face was virtually unlined. And his near-perfect features included the darkest blue eyes you can imagine. Their color, of course, being the ideal complement to his beautiful silver hair. That’s not all, either. He had been standing and just slipping into his jacket when Lou and I entered the room, and I got a glimpse of a torso that was both lean and muscular. If I’d seen him on the street, I probably would have pegged Morgan Sklaar as an actor. Or maybe a model. I had to practically pinch myself to remember that right now he had to be considered a murder suspect.
Lou opened with, “I understand you published Sheila Vincent’s cookbook.”
“Cookbooks,” Sklaar corrected amiably. “And I still do.”
“Did you ever have occasion to meet Mr. Vincent?”
“Only a couple of times. I went to a party at their home a while back, and then Sheila invited me to a barbecue out there this summer.”
“What was your relationship with Mrs. Vincent like?” I asked.
The publisher looked at me blankly. “ ‘Like’?”
“Was there, uh, any involvement on a personal level?”
“Our relationship, Detective Shapiro, was strictly professional.”
“She’s a pretty attractive woman, though, don’t you think?”
“I think she’s a pretty talented woman. She writes with a great deal of charm. In case you aren’t familiar with them, Sheila’s cookbooks don’t just tell you how many table-spoons to put in and at what temperature to set your oven. There are delightful anecdotes accompanying her recipes—some of them about her catering career, others about her family and friends. You ought to read one of her books.”
“I’d like to,” I responded.
“Let me give you a copy.” I figured it would take about a week for Sklaar to lay hands on what he was looking for. But he got up, scoured one section of the bookcase, and a short while later presented me with a copy of Memorable Mealtimes. “This was her first.”
“I can’t believe you found it so quickly,” I remarked after thanking him warmly.
He smiled. “That makes two of us. I’m amazed myself that I know the approximate location of so many of the titles. I do have to get this place straightened up one of these days, though.”
Turning the book over casually, I glanced at the widow’s picture. And then, for no reason I can come up with, I asked, “Who is her editor?”
The answer surprised me. “I am.”
“You even edited this book?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Now, I don’t know beans about publishing, but I thought it a little odd that someone in Morgan Sklaar’s position would take the time to work with an author who was still a question mark. The thing is, you could tell just by his office how busy the man was. “Umm, I was wondering,” I said. “Isn’t it sort of unusual for a publisher to handle a first-time author himself?”
“It’s done,” Sklaar responded. “Especially in a house as small as this one. Look, just because I was editing Ms. Vincent doesn’t mean I was sleeping with her. I decided to edit Sheila myself because I was so impressed with her style. There was every indication the book would do very well for us.”
“And did it?”
Sklaar shifted uneasily in his chair. “Not quite as well as I’d anticipated. But Sheila has definitely been building an audience. In fact, she’s currently writing a third cookbook for us.”
“Uh-huh.” I waited a few moments before saying, “So you never saw Sheila Vincent socially. Apart from those two times you went to her home, that is.”
“I’ve already answered that.”
“I think I should mention, Mr. Sklaar, that we have a witness who swears to have spotted the two of you out together more than once.”
Sklaar’s cheeks looked as if they’d suddenly been splashed with red paint, and for a couple of seconds I was afraid I might have given him apoplexy. It was a relief when he spoke. “Listen, over the years I’ve taken Ms. Vincent out to lunch and dinner on a number of occasions,” he spat out, his tone more caustic with every word. “But it was to discuss her books. It’s a very common practice in publishing, for God’s sake!”
“Uh, I’d like to get some information from you, sir—for our records,” Lou put in here, ending his lengthy silence.
“What kind of information?”
“Would you mind telling us where you were the night Frank Vincent was murdered?”
“This is unbelievable!” Sklaar shouted. “I’ve been married—happily married—for almost forty years. I was not Sheila Vincent’s lover. And I did not kill her husband in a jealous passion. I have had a professional association with Sheila for quite some time now, and I’m fond of her. But my primary interest is in publishing her books. And the last time I checked, that wasn’t considered a criminal offense.”
Lou tried pacifying the man with the usual “it’s merely routine” line.
Sklaar’s complexion still didn’t return to normal, and a muscle was twitching just below his left eye. But he offered grudgingly, “All right. I’ll tell you what you want to know if you’ll agree to get out of here immediately afterward so I can go back to running my company.”
“It’s a deal,” my partner assured him.
“Frank was shot a week ago this past Wednesday, I believe.”
“Yes,” Lou confirmed. “At around eight p.m.”
“Let me check my calendar; that may help.” Digging under all that clutter on his desk, Sklaar unearthed a black leather appointment ledger. He thumbed through it quickly and was soon nodding, satisfied. “I was right here in my office until quarter to eight that evening. You see, we’d recently acquired this manuscript, and I had a meeting scheduled with the author’s attorney on Thursday morning. That’s the reason I stayed late—I wanted to reread the manuscript before the meeting.”
“Can anyone substantiate that you were at work until then?” Lou inquired.
“I don’t think so. I was behind closed doors from about four o’clock on, trying to concentrate.”
“What about phone calls?”
“Come on, Lieutenant. You can’t expect me to remember a thing like that after all this time.” And with a smirk: “Of course, if I’d had any idea I’d be under suspicion like this, I’d certainly have made note of them.”
Lou ignored the sarcasm. “Where did you go after you left here?”
“I went home.”
“Where is home?”
“About a ten-minute walk from the office—in Greenwich Village.” Half-rising then, Sklaar pushed back his chair.
“Did anyone see you when you got in?” Lou asked.
Grudgingly the publisher sat back down. “No one. My wife was out of town.”
“Vacation?” I said.
Sklaar glared at me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but her mother, who lives in Seattle, had to undergo surgery. And my wife wanted to be with her.”
“I hope everything’s all right now.”
“Everything’s fine, Detective,” he answered tersely, making another abortive attempt at getting to his feet.
“How about the doorman?”
Leaning back in his chair, the publisher eyed me with an expression closely resembling pity. “How about the doorman, Detective Shapiro? Do you seriously imagine a doorman would recall exactly when one of his many tenants came home on a particular evening more than a week earlier?”
“I suppose not,” I conceded, feeling like a total idiot.
“And anyway, I don’t have a doorman. I live in a town-house.” He might just as well have added, “Gotcha!”
“You didn’t stop for a bite after you left work, by any chance?” Old habits, it seems, die hard. I mean, in spite of my sudden appetite loss (I’d wasted more of today’s lunch than I’d eaten), it was obvious that I still saw life, to a great extent, as revolving around food.
“My wife left a bunch of dinners in the freezer.”
I took another tack. After all, nothing ventured . . . “Do you have any idea if Sheila Vincent was romantically involved with another man?”
“No, I don’t. Ms. Vincent didn’t confide in me. We aren’t girlfriends, you know.”
Well, that seemed to cover it. I glanced over at Lou, who nodded. I was bending over to retrieve my handbag and attaché case from the floor when Sklaar said firmly, “Wait.”
I looked up in surprise.
“I just thought of something. When I quit work Wednesday evening, Roberta Riley—she’s an assistant editor here—was walking out of the building a short distance ahead of me.”
“Did Roberta see you?”
“No, I’m positive she didn’t. She didn’t turn around at all.”
“This woman—does she normally stay late?”
“Almost always, Detective Shapiro. In fact, seven-forty-five is a pretty early night for her. Roberta’s still young and gung-ho.” Sklaar’s accompanying smile bordered on the avuncular.
And now, placing his palms flat on the desk, he looked at us meaningfully. “Well?”
Lou stood up. “We’re as good as gone.”
“You never give up on that mythical witness stuff, do you?” Lou brought up in the car, his tone somewhere between amused and irritated. (But, it seemed to me, favoring irritated.) “And it accomplished about as much as it did with Whitfield, too.”
“It was worth a try. Anyway, it didn’t do any harm.”
“That’s your story,” he argued—although fairly mildly. “That bluff of yours got Sklaar pretty riled up, so much so, if you recall, that we had a tough time getting him to cooperate after that.”
“Well, it does work sometimes. Plenty of times, actually.” And then, because I knew I was on shaky ground with this claim, I went on the attack. “Besides, maybe it would have been a little easier to interrogate him if, after I tried that witness thing, you’d waited a second or two before asking where he was on Wednesday night.”
Lou laughed. “You win—but you usually do. As that fine gentleman Joe Maltese said, ‘You’ve got some mouth, lady.’ ” He took his hand from the steering wheel just long enough to give me a friendly punch on the shoulder.
Now, I know this is ridiculous, but it was almost as if he’d kissed me. I mean, I got this crazy sensation in my stomach, and I could feel myself growing warm. I was petrified that at any minute I’d start to blush and embarrass myself to death. What was with me lately, anyhow?
“What do you think of Sklaar’s alibi?” I asked, forcing myself to concentrate on the investigation.
“I can’t say it does much for me. You?”
“Me, neither. I have to admit, though, that if the guy’s lying, I like the way he thinks.”
“In what respect?”
“Look, realizing that sooner or later he might be questioned about his whereabouts at the time of the shooting, he saw to it he had a little something in his back pocket that would add credence to his story. The way I figure it, since he was aware of this Riley woman’s penchant for keeping long hours, on that Thursday he casually asked her how late she’d worked the previous evening. I wouldn’t even be surprised if, after she told him, he said, ‘I thought it was you I saw when I was leaving.’ Or maybe he overheard Riley mention to a coworker or somebody that she—”
I broke off when I noted the smug smile on Lou’s face.
“What?” I demanded.
“It’s just that you’re making this whole thing so complicated. Chances are there were time sheets or one of those sign-in/sign-out books to tell him who was around until when.”
The fact that I hadn’t even considered this possibility did not particularly please me. “Anyhow,” I responded grumpily, “I also thought it was a nice touch that he waited until we were ready to call it a day and then acted as if he just remembered about Riley.”
“Hey, it’s very likely that Sklaar did just remember and that he actually did see her walking out of the building Wednesday night.”
I was in a really sour mood by now. And I’m not sure the time sheet oversight was the only cause of it, either. I think a big chunk of my distemper could be attributed to the confusion I was feeling on a personal level. At any rate, I snapped my retort. “I realize that. I did say something before about if he wasn’t telling the truth, you know.”
“Well, either way,” Lou summed up in an infuriatingly reasonable tone, “unless Roberta Riley saw him, too—and by his own admission, she didn’t—Morgan Sklaar’s alibi isn’t worth a damn.”
Chapter 35
After we left Sklaar I was afraid Lou might suggest going out to eat. And I had visions of spending an hour or more trying to unobtrusively push food around my plate. But then he mentioned something about meeting Jake at some steakhouse—thank goodness.
When I got home that evening I fixed myself a single scrambled egg; somehow it didn’t seem as threatening as, say, a tuna fish sandwich. But at least half of it wound up in the garbage anyhow. I settled for a couple of slices of toast, washed down with two cups of coffee—coffee, no matter how atrocious, being the one thing I had no problem managing lately.
As soon as I finished I dialed Ellen.
She still hadn’t vacated her cloud. “I’m dying to tell my parents,” she prattled deliriously. “What do you think my mother will say when she sees this ring?” (Which didn’t require an answer.) “Mike’s been on pins and needles waiting for his folks to telephone. Ohhh, wasn’t he absolutely adorable last night?” (Which also didn’t call for an answer.) “You know, Aunt Dez, I still can’t believe how wonderful all the people in that restaurant were . . .”
When she eventually paused for breath, as I was almost certain she had to, I got in that I wanted her and Mike to come over for dinner. “When can you both make it?”
“Mike’s off Sunday night—or won’t that give you enough time to prepare?”
“Sunday should be fine—let’s say around eight, okay?”
“Great.” Now that she’d been temporarily forced to earth, she even thought to ask what kind of day I’d had.
“Not bad.”
This was enough to satisfy Ellen. Because right after an automatic “I’m so glad,” she was up and away again. “We’re wondering if we should look for an apartment or just live at Mike’s for a while after we’re married. Did I mention we’ll probably have the wedding this summer? I’ve been trying to decide if I want to wear white or off-white . . .”
I smiled. It was a joy to hear Ellen this
happy. Nevertheless, I tuned her out now in order to plan Sunday’s dinner menu. Just as I was about to finalize it, though, I realized that at long last she was expecting a response from me.
“So, what do you think?” she wanted to know.
“Umm . . . well, I—”
“Never mind. I don’t feel dogs belong at a ceremony anyway.”
I sat down with Sheila Vincent’s book a short while later. Sklaar was right, I concluded, after reading a few pages: The woman did have talent. She painted wonderful word pictures, whether she was describing one of her dishes or relating an anecdote. I’d really have to try out a few of her recipes—if I was ever again up to sampling anything edible, that is. The ringing phone tore me away from Sheila’s Consommé Julienne.
It was Al.
Once we’d dispensed with the “How are you”s, I told him about Ellen’s engagement.
“That’s terrific! Absolutely terrific!” He sounded almost as pumped up as I was. The man was just so nice. Yet—and I was finally willing to admit this to myself—I was less than thrilled about his imminent return to New York.
For the second time in only a few hours I pondered the same question: What was with me lately, anyhow?
The alarm clock went off so early on Saturday that I had to fight the urge to smash it into millions of pieces. I quickly remembered that before going to work, I had to shop for Sunday’s dinner. At any rate, I was soon marching determinedly up and down the supermarket aisles, where I found everything I was looking for in an unheard of (for me) half an hour. Then after dropping off the groceries at the apartment, I picked up my Chevy and headed for Riverton.
The minute I was out of my coat I was in Lou’s office. Just before leaving for home last night I’d suggested he give himself today off, since I planned on devoting all my time to transcribing my notes. “Unless,” I had added diplomatically, “you can think of something else we should be dealing with.”
“We should certainly talk to some more of da Silva’s buddies—and, of course, the big guy himself. But I can’t imagine how it would hurt if we held off until after the weekend, especially since we’ve waited this long. But let’s start moving on it Monday, huh?”
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 18
