Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  “Fine,” I had said. Oh, shit! I’d thought.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, anyway. What gives you the idea, Shapiro, that you’re the only one who has paperwork to catch up on?”

  So here we both were on this cold, gray Saturday morning. Walking behind Lou’s chair now, I plunked the photograph I’d cut out of the Memorable Mealtimes book jacket on his desk. He glanced down at it and then up at me. “What is this?”

  “Sheila Vincent. It’s a few years old, but it’s still a pretty good likeness, wouldn’t you agree?” The picture showed Sheila in one of those typical glamour poses authors seem to be so fond of. The widow’s head was tilted to one side, her chin cupped in her hand, her blonde hair brushing her face ever so slightly, a mysterious half smile on her face.

  “I know who it is. What I’d like to know is what this is about.”

  “It’s time we started going around to the local motels,” I explained, taking a seat. “Maybe we can find someone who recognizes Sheila and/or her possible love interest. Felicia will be FedExing the photos of our male contestants to me—by early next week, I hope.”

  “Felicia?”

  I tittered a little. “She’s an acquaintance of mine who works in the circulation department of Business Today— and as accomplished a liar as you’d ever want to meet.” (I couldn’t keep the admiration out of my voice when I made this announcement.) “I called Felicia yesterday to ask her to do what she does best. And she was only too happy to oblige. She loves a bit of intrigue. Besides, Felicia’s terribly bored at work—she’s really overqualified for her job. Anyway, as soon as we hung up, she got in touch with Andrew Shippman, pretending to be a writer for the magazine. She told him she was doing an article on successful entrepreneurs in this area, and she said that if he wanted to be included, they’d need a recent head shot of him right away—addressed to her attention, of course. After that she spoke to the senior partner at Whitfield’s law firm. Only this time her story was that she was writing a piece on young attorneys. And Monday morning she’ll be calling Larkspur Publishing and—But you get the idea. At any rate, they were all just delighted to honor the request for a picture.”

  Lou was shaking his head. “Jeezus! You are something else. Okay. As soon as you complete your photograph album we’ll begin canvassing the motels. Not that I—”

  “I know, I know. Not that you think I’m on the right track.”

  “You got it.” A moment later something evidently occurred to him. “Say,” he remarked, suspicion in his tone, “all of a sudden you seem to be pretty revved up about this ‘other man’ angle again. Did I miss something?”

  I couldn’t reveal that my conversation with my client was what had lit this fire under me, so I shaded the truth a little. “Don’t be silly. It’s only that I feel we should explore every possibility before abandoning that theory.”

  Lou looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t like to throw cold water on your plans, Dez—and, anyhow, I imagine you’re already aware of this yourself—but I still figured I should mention it.”

  “Go on,” I told him evenly, although my back had begun to stiffen.

  “What I’m trying to say is that while we should probably take a stab at the motels just in case, I don’t think we can count on them having the answer for us. If Sheila Vincent had herself a lover, it’s more than likely they didn’t even utilize one of our local hot-sheet establishments. With Whitfield, for example, they could have gone to a friend’s house—maybe the friend he’s staying with now.”

  “Unless,” I argued, “he didn’t care to have his friend find out about Sheila.”

  “Okay. But suppose it was Morgan Sklaar she was seeing. It would have been smarter to get together somewhere in New York. And if it was—”

  “You’re right, I did realize all that stuff,” I interrupted, glaring at him. “But I don’t know for sure that they didn’t rendezvous around here—and neither do you. Listen, why don’t you try acting a little more positive, for a change?” I lectured, ignoring all those times he’d done exactly that in an attempt to counter my own negativism.

  The reprimand apparently didn’t shake him up too much. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Just please don’t shoot me.” And grinning, he shielded his face with his forearm.

  Chapter 36

  I’d accomplished more than I thought I would today. In fact, I was well into transcribing my notes on the conversation Lou and I had had with Morgan Sklaar. So I wasn’t feeling as guilty about playing hooky tomorrow as I might have otherwise. Besides, it would be my first free day since I’d begun working in Riverton.

  I got home at a little after seven. And right after sharing most of my supper with the garbage can—which, being it was the tuna sandwich I’d rejected yesterday, wasn’t much of a supper anyway—I started on the do-ahead stuff for Sunday’s dinner.

  I fixed the salad dressing and then prepared a couple of the hors d’oeuvres. I made such good time with these (probably because I didn’t stop for a taste every few minutes) that I even toyed with the thought of whipping up the dessert at that point. But I realized almost at once that I didn’t have the energy. (I don’t care what anyone tells you, there really is something to be said for scarfing down all those calories.) Instead, I wound up taking a leisurely bubble bath, and later I sat around and watched TV until just past midnight, when I went to bed.

  Sleep, however, was impossible. Now that I was once again comfortable with my initial theory, I kept obsessing about the widow and her faceless lover. Of course, I still couldn’t dismiss Lou’s idea that one of my client’s people had done away with Vincent. Although since my talk with da Silva, it did seem less and less probable this would turn out to be the case.

  All of a sudden I had this absolutely horrifying thought: Maybe Lou and I were both right. Suppose the man Sheila was playing house with was one of da Silva’s associates?

  I swear I could practically hear Joe Maltese telling her that “the ball and chain” didn’t understand him. And in spite of how unnerved I was by this gangster/lover notion of mine, I actually began to giggle.

  But when soon afterward I was back to engaging in some serious reflection, I found it impossible to imagine Sheila locked in a passionate embrace with a buffoon like Maltese—even if this was necessary to entice him to dispose of her husband. I mean, surely a woman as attractive as Sheila Vincent could manage to dig up an accomplice with a little more sex appeal and a lot more class than a Joe Maltese. Or anybody that was anything like him. I was all ready to dismiss this jarring new concept of mine when it dawned on me. What if there was an Al Pacino-type among da Silva’s cronies—or, heaven forbid, two of them?

  It was then, as I recall, that I buried my head under the pillow. Don’t sweat it, I urged as I struggled for breath. You’ve already figured out the widow’s most likely paramours.

  But while I desperately wanted to believe this, I wasn’t altogether convinced.

  I was awakened at just past eleven a.m. on Sunday by either a woman with a deep, throaty voice or a man with an unusually high-pitched one phoning to ask me to subscribe to the Daily News and addressing me in this very cozy tone as Deseeray. Still, I was beholden to Toni—Tony?—(which, at the onset of our very abbreviated conversation, I’d been informed was her/his name). The thing is, while I’d set the alarm for nine-thirty, I’d managed to sleep right through it—a pretty unusual occurrence for me, but understandable in this instance since I’d thrashed around on the bed for most of the night. And who knows how long I would have been out if it weren’t for this caller. I was feeling almost grateful enough to subscribe to the newspaper. Almost.

  I jumped up, hastily threw on some clothes, and after drinking two cups of coffee and forcing a slice of toast on myself, I tackled my apartment. I did lots of good, fun stuff: vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing, polishing . . . (Well, I couldn’t have Mike thinking that Ellen, blood relation or not, came from a family with a sloppy aunt in it, could I?)

  Once the gru
nge work was out of the way I turned my attention to tonight’s meal. That meant running over to the greengrocers’ to pick out some nice vegetables for the salad, along with a bouquet of wildflowers for the table.

  As soon as I got back upstairs I put the champagne on ice to ensure that I wouldn’t forget about it. My fingers were crossed that the bottle of Piper Heidsick, which for the past three years had been on red alert waiting for a special occasion, preferably this one, hadn’t gone bad on me. This being a definite possibility, considering that my “wine cellar” was a sixteen-dollar wine rack from Macy’s that stood right next to an end table in the living room.

  With the champagne taken care of, I went on to deal with the remainder of the advance preparations for the dinner.

  Ellen and Mike arrived promptly at eight, just as I was setting the hors d’oeuvres on the cocktail table. And a nice little selection it was, if I say so myself: parmesan cheese puffs, bacon roll-ups, and mushroom croustades—which, in the event you’re not familiar with them, are tiny breadcases with a delectable mushroom filling.

  Both of my guests looked adorable this evening, with Ellen at her most Audrey Hepburnish. She was wearing a beige turtleneck sweater and a straight, rust-colored suede skirt that reached her ankles—also, the most radiant smile you’d ever want to see. Mike—who, with his sandy hair and long, lean body, is even the perfect match for her physically—had on a brown-and-gray crew-neck sweater, gray slacks and a smile that came close to vying with Ellen’s.

  I thanked them for the merlot they’d brought before announcing that we’d be saving it for another occasion. And then I recruited Mike to open the Piper Heidsick.

  I might have sounded a bit on the sappy side when I made my tearful toast, but the words were heartfelt. “Whatever you wish for yourselves,” I told them, “I wish you much, much more.”

  A single ceremonial sip of the bubbly—which, I’m happy to report, hadn’t soured in the least—and Ellen was jumping up from the sofa to hug me. For a second there I imagined I heard something crack, and I truly feared that in her exuberance she’d broken one or two of my ribs. (How anyone with the build of a celery stalk can exhibit so much strength is almost as big a mystery as where she can possibly be putting all the food she consumes.) I was still wondering about the extent of the damage inflicted on my anatomy when my almost-nephew—a designation which I now happily substituted for the previous “Ellen’s almost-fiancé”—bestowed a more benign token of affection, depositing a kiss on my cheek.

  Soon the two of them were sipping and nibbling, while the sherry roast pork—a favorite of theirs—sizzled in the oven, where it would momentarily be joined by a delicious sweet-potato-and-brown sugar concoction.

  It was a few minutes after I’d returned from a visit to the kitchen when Ellen remarked that so far I hadn’t reached for the hors d’oeuvre tray even once. “What’s the matter, Aunt Dez? You’re not touching a thing—aside from the champagne, I mean.”

  “It’s nothing, really. I just haven’t felt much like eating the last couple of days.”

  “Then how could you prepare all this?” She waved her hand first at the cocktail table and then in the direction of the kitchen. “I know that whenever I get like that, I can’t even bear to look at food.”

  I had to laugh—but I didn’t. Ellen was sounding as if she grappled with this affliction on a regular basis. The truth is, she loses her appetite about as often as I do, which means practically never. “Cooking doesn’t seem to bother me. It’s only the swallowing I have trouble with,” I told her.

  “I know this is kind of a doctor thing to say, Dez,” Mike put in, flushing, “but if this keeps up, you really should have yourself checked out.”

  “Honestly, it’s just a reaction to the Vincent case. It’s getting me down.”

  I caught Mike and Ellen exchanging glances and raised eyebrows. Probably because they were both well aware that all the cases I’ve ever worked on have gotten me down, some of them on a daily basis, but I’d rarely, if ever, taken it out on my food before.

  “Well, don’t let it go too long,” Mike pressed. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “I won’t.”

  We had dinner in the living room, on the folding table. I’d covered the table with a beautiful lace cloth—the only really nice one I own—and set out the good china and silver. The fresh flowers, displayed in a gorgeous Baccarat vase Ed and I had received as a wedding gift, made a lovely centerpiece. I was really pleased with how festive everything looked.

  By the time we sat down to eat I’d consumed quite a lot of the champagne—enough, in fact, so that I was actually up to small helpings of the pork and sweet potatoes and a slightly larger helping of my bountiful, fourteen-ingredient salad. I can’t say I ate with any great enthusiasm; mostly I just picked. But even that was progress.

  Over the meal, we continued with what was naturally the evening’s main topic of conversation: the forthcoming nuptials.

  Mike mentioned that he was still waiting anxiously to hear from his parents. “I’m dying to let them know about Ellen and me,” he said wistfully. Then Ellen went on and on about how thrilled her parents were going to be. And from here, the talk worked its way around to Ellen’s gown.

  Although they hadn’t reached any decision yet as to the kind of wedding they wanted, my niece had some pretty definite ideas on what she was planning to wear. “It has to be a long dress. That goes without saying. I’d like silk. A sheath, most likely. Something with a high neck, maybe even a turtleneck. And I’m leaning very strongly toward off-white. What do you think, Aunt Dez?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer. “You’ll be my matron of honor, of course.”

  She’d made the pronouncement casually, but there was nothing casual about it for me. I shrieked, shot out of my seat, and rushed around the table to embrace her, quickly retreating before she could embrace me back.

  I was so overjoyed with the news that I even picked at the roast pork some more.

  Soon it was time for dessert.

  I’d considered ordering a cake, but then I elected to serve my chilled lemon soufflé, since Ellen and Mike are both so crazy about it. I suppose I shouldn’t really call it “my” soufflé, though, since I didn’t actually create it. The truth is, years ago I came across the recipe in a newspaper. At any rate, tonight I’d taken great pains to decorate it to fit the occasion. The result, I’m afraid, was hardly the artistic masterpiece I’d been striving for. To begin with, the soufflé is only about seven inches in diameter, and I’m not exactly a whiz with a pastry tube. So while I did manage to fit “Happy” on one line, “Engagement” ended up being broken up into “En,” and then on the next line, “gage,” and on the last, “ment.” Not only that. The hearts I drew wound up looking like scraggly circles, with the flowers resembling more scraggy circles, but with tails.

  Nevertheless, Ellen and Mike politely oohed and aahed over my handiwork.

  “It was a great touch, your adding all those man/woman symbols,” Mike said appreciatively.

  I accepted the compliment with my most gracious smile.

  After Mike had had seconds of the soufflé and Ellen thirds—and even I had managed a couple of spoonfuls—Mike asked about the investigation. “I know you don’t like to talk business while we’re eating—and incidentally, I was glad to see that you at least had something at dinner—but now that we’re through, maybe you won’t mind filling us in. What’s been happening over in Riverton?”

  So I told them, without going into any of the details, about how some recent information from Vito da Silva had reinforced my initial feeling that Sheila Vincent had been involved in her husband’s murder. “Lou, my partner, on the other hand, believes a member of da Silva’s own organization might have been responsible, that maybe because of da Silva’s closeness to Vincent there was some kind of a jealousy thing going on there.”

  “What a crock!” Ellen responded. “How did he come up with a dumb idea like that?”

  M
uch to my subsequent chagrin, I leapt instantly—and passionately—to Lou’s defense. “Look, Ellen,” I retorted, bristling, “Lou Hoffman is an extremely capable police officer and also a very intelligent man. It’s just that some facts we’d been given a while back made it appear as though Mrs. Vincent had no motive for doing away with her husband. So Lou went to this alternative theory. What I found out from my client the other day, however, gives the widow a dandy motive. But unfortunately, I can’t share what I learned without divulging my source.” I concluded with a contentious, “Anyhow, while I’m not quite sold on Lou’s idea, it does have some merit, you know. You’d realize that yourself if you bothered to take even two seconds to think about it.”

  “When is Al due back?” Ellen asked, apparently not offended in the least.

  “Some time today or tonight—I’m not sure which. But where on earth did that come from?”

  She ignored the question. “How are you going to handle things with him?”

  “With Al? What does he have to do with this?”

  “It’s obvious how you feel about your partner. Even Mike must have picked up on it.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Mike mumbled.

  Ellen flashed him a grin before going back to work on me. “You should see how your eyes light up when you talk about him. You really like this guy.”

  My face seemed to be on fire. “Well, of course I do. I’ve told you before, he’s a very nice—”

  “I’m talking like him like him. As you’re well aware.”

  “You have it all wrong, Ellen. Lou’s a good partner, and I respect him as a person, but that’s as far as it goes.”

  “Do you think he’s interested in you?” my niece asked eagerly, paying no attention at all to the protest.