Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  The item itself read:

  Private investigator Desiree Shapiro was injured in a hit-and-run on Friday morning, shortly after midnight. The victim had just left her car at the Uptown Garage on East Eighty-first Street, after having had a late dinner with a friend, and was on her way to her home less than two blocks away when the incident took place.

  Shapiro, currently investigating the high-profile murder of Riverton, New Jersey chiropractor and former political candidate Frank Vincent, 37—who was shot to death in front of his office on November 13—believes that she was deliberately struck down. Although she admits to having no definite leads as yet on the Vincent killing, Shapiro nevertheless insists that there is a link between the two crimes. “That car was headed straight for me,” she told this reporter. “Looks like I’m finally making somebody nervous.”

  An eyewitness to the occurrence, Stanley Sullivan, 57, appears to substantiate Shapiro’s contention. “The car seemed to be aiming for the woman,” he said. “That’s the way it looked to me, anyhow.”

  Shapiro, who declined to give her age, was rushed by ambulance to New York Hospital, where she is being treated for a broken leg and possible concussion.

  Neither Shapiro nor Sullivan was able to provide any information on the driver of the car or the vehicle itself, which immediately left the scene.

  My eyes wandered over to Frank Vincent’s photo again. That s.o.b. was really a very attractive man, I grudgingly conceded before closing the newspaper. And promptly opening it to page seven again.

  There was something about that photograph . . . something that had almost succeeded in arousing my sluggish memory. But damned if I could put my finger on what it was.

  I don’t know how long I stared at the victim’s good-looking face. It might have been two minutes or ten or even twenty. But suddenly the fog dissipated, and I had the frightening, the unbelievable answer.

  That picture!

  My God! That picture!

  Chapter 49

  I was so unnerved I couldn’t even close my eyes that night.

  This . . . this . . . revelation of mine was too incredible to even consider. Yet I was certain my memory wasn’t deceiving me. Or was it?

  It had to be sometime after four a.m. when I finally dropped off. And then—wouldn’t you know it?—I was awakened by the telephone. My digital clock informed me that it was six-thirty-one.

  “Are you all right, Desiree?”

  It took a moment for the voice to register on my sleep-logged brain. “Mr. da Silva?”

  “Yes. Forgive my calling you at this hour, but I have been away on a family holiday. I only learned of what happened late last night, and I was worried about you.”

  It was unexpected, this expression of concern from da Silva. And as to his actually apologizing to me—now that really threw me. “Oh, uh, I’ll be okay,” I responded awkwardly.

  Da Silva made some polite inquiries about my health and prognosis, following which he posed the question that was, I believed, the principal purpose of his call. “Who did this to you? Do you know?”

  I answered cautiously. “I’m not sure. There are a couple of things I want to follow up on.”

  “Good. I was concerned that you might be considering resigning from the case.”

  “Oh, no. I’ll probably spend a day or two at home—but I’ll still be working, going over my notes. And then I’ll be back in Riverton tomorrow or Wednesday.”

  “How do you intend getting there?”

  “I’ll hire a car service.”

  “No. I will arrange for a chauffeur for you. Every day, for as long as is necessary, he will drive you to the police station—and wherever else you want to go. Then he will bring you home in the evening.”

  It certainly pays to have friends in high or—depending on how you look at it—low places, doesn’t it? “Thank you. That would be a tremendous help. Uh, Mr. da Silva? There’s something I really should check into immediately. Do you think it would be possible for him to start today?”

  “Of course. When do you want him?”

  “How about this morning? At ten o’clock?”

  “Done.”

  When I came downstairs at nine-fifty-five, Fullmer—he only used the one name—was double-parked in front of my door. Dressed in proper chauffeur attire, he was leaning with his back against the hood of the long, black limousine, smoking. As soon as he spotted me, he stomped out the cigarette and hurried over to assist me.

  He was an extremely large man. Six-three or -four and probably not far from three hundred pounds—most of it appearing to be muscle. I suspected that chauffeuring was only one of Fullmer’s duties. Nevertheless, he was very gentle as he helped me into the back of the limo, which not only had a well-stocked bar and a miniature TV, but much more important, enough room to stretch out a leg enclosed in a cast.

  It took close to an hour-and-a-half to reach the Breeze Inn. And during that time I kept telling myself again and again that this was probably the dumbest, most bizarre idea I’d ever had.

  Herman Conway, the manager of the motel, ran his bony fingers through his sparse brown hair as he examined the photograph. It was one I hadn’t shown him before. Then, placing the picture on the counter, he favored me with a yellow-toothed smile. “Now him I recognize.”

  “You’re positive?” I demanded once I reminded myself to exhale.

  “Absolutely. He was here quite a few times. The way it was, see, this one afternoon when he come in, I was pretty sure he’d been in previous to that, but I couldn’ta sworn to it. I don’t usually pay these people much attention. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “On that particular day, though, I happened to look out the window after the guy left the office, and I seen the woman he was with. Class. Real class. Know what I mean?”

  “I know just what you mean,” I told him caustically, digging my nails into my palms as the widow’s smug little smile flashed through my mind.

  “The thing is, the guy wasn’t much, see?” Conway continued. “He sure isn’t no Sean Connery or nothin’. But still, he gets to play footsie with someone like her. I was thinkin’ that you gotta be lucky in this life, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then I say to myself, ‘Hey, what do you know? Maybe the dude’s loaded.’ And this reminds me that he was wearin’ a very handsome pinkie ring, which I noticed when he signed the register that afternoon. And all of a sudden it comes to me that I seen that ring before. Like I said, I kind of vaguely remembered him anyway, but the ring—that clinched it.”

  “You must really be into rings.”

  “Not me. Her—my girlfriend. And this one had one of them blue stones—”

  “A sapphire.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was about to say. A sapphire. Which is my girlfriend’s birthstone—in September, she was born. Anyhow, she’s been after me to give her an engagement ring for Christmas. But soon’s I laid eyes on that ring—the first time I ever seen it, I’m speaking about—it occurred to me that maybe if I got her somethin’ like that, it would shut her up for a while. Know what I mean?” He flashed his yellow-toothed smile. “Hey, I can hope.

  “But anyway, after gettin’ a look at the guy’s lady friend that day, the next time he come in I paid a little more attention to the lucky stiff.”

  “And the woman? Did you see her again?”

  “Sure did. He was back a week later, maybe less—that was around the beginning of November, I think. And, well, to be honest, I was curious if he was with the same one again. So the minute he left the office, I ran over to the window—and there she was. I watched him helpin’ her out of the car, but her head was bent. And then they started walkin’ the other way. Mostly what I was gettin’ was a rear view. Know what I mean? But I could tell it was her on account of the hair. Blonde, and, you know, pulled back and sorta wound all around.” He drew concentric circles in the air.

  “You’re saying she had a chignon?”

  “A what
?”

  “A bun.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  I played the devil’s advocate. “But plenty of women wear their hair like that.”

  “Listen, she was the same height. And she had the same way of movin’—she like glided. Know what I mean? Also, I recognized the coat. Bright red, with this little black fur collar.”

  “Did you see either of them after that time?”

  “Uh-uh. But they might of come in at night or on a weekend. I’m off then.”

  I reached into my attaché case. Fortunately the case and its contents had escaped the wheels of Friday morning’s killer car. Taking out the same picture that the manager had failed to identify previously, I handed it to him now. “Is this the woman?”

  Conway studied the photo carefully, then held it up in front of him, squinting. “Hair’s different. I’m tryin’ to pitcher how she’d look if she had it in that bun style. But, yeah, I think this could be her. It definitely could be. You don’t have no other pitchers?”

  “I’ll get one,” I said.

  I had just thanked him and was about to go when Conway—only half in jest, I believe—leaned across the counter. “Hey, what’d those two do, anyhow? They serial killers or somethin’?”

  “That’s right. Or somethin’.”

  Chapter 50

  I’ve never been able to explain it.

  It wasn’t as if I decided to handle it that way.

  After all, he’d become a desperate man. And God knows—and so does everyone else—how brave I’m not. Besides, I was hardly at my best physically. (And even when I am, it’s nothing to brag about.) I mean, I was well aware that I’d have to be either incredibly stupid or completely around the bend to summon him.

  Sitting there on the edge of the bed, though, with the telephone within easy reach, I realized with a shudder that I was going to do it regardless.

  I just couldn’t seem to restrain myself.

  “I know,” I informed him, the receiver wet in my hand.

  “Know what?”

  “About you and Sheila Vincent.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re—”

  “Yes, you do.”

  There was a long pause, and then he said, “I think it might be a good idea if I came over.”

  “Yes,” I told him. “That’s what I had in mind.”

  Chapter 51

  Less than an hour later the buzzer sounded. I was unnaturally calm when I opened the door. Numb, I suppose. There was a puzzled expression on his face. “Come in,” I tossed out over my shoulder as I turned and made my way to the sofa.

  I lowered myself onto the cushions with some difficulty, while this man who had been my partner and friend—and, as far as I was concerned, at least, so much more—took a seat on the club chair facing me. For a couple of seconds we appraised each other in silence. Then Lou smiled tentatively. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”

  “Do you?”

  “Am I supposed to have any idea what that cryptic phone call of yours meant?”

  “You’re supposed to have every idea.”

  “Well, as it happens, I don’t.”

  “Okay, then let me enlighten you. You’ve been having an affair with Sheila Vincent, and—”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “—you killed her husband,” I finished.

  “I did what?”

  “Look, I have evidence now that the two of you were involved. The manager of the Breeze Inn identified your photograph. You know, the one in the Star-Ledger that you suggested I hang in my bathroom. I didn’t take your advice, but for some reason, I did stuff it into my desk drawer.”

  “It’s obvious the motel guy mistook me for someone else.”

  “No, Lou, he didn’t,” I corrected wearily. “Accept it. The man made you.”

  It was a few moments before Lou responded. “Okay. I admit I was at the Breeze Inn with a woman a few times—I’ve never passed myself off as a monk, have I? But I wasn’t there with Mrs. Vincent. He couldn’t make her, if you remember.”

  “Oh, but this morning that’s just what he did. I got ahold of a more recent shot of her,” I lied, “and he was able to ID her instantly.”

  Lou stared down at his hands in an apparent attempt to collect his thoughts. I watched hypnotically as he clenched and unclenched his fists in an almost rhythmic manner. At last he said, “Okay, it’s true. I was with Sheila. But the fact that we’ve been seeing each other is completely unrelated to Frank’s murder. And why did you decide to go back there and show my picture, anyway?”

  “It was because of another picture. The picture of the victim with Joe Maltese that’s in the Vincent study.”

  Lou’s eyes were wary now. “Go on.”

  “I suddenly recalled your handing it to Sheila that evening and questioning her about the man who was with her husband. But my first day on the case, you told me you had no idea what Frank Vincent looked like.”

  “Is that all?” Lou scoffed. “I saw a head shot of him in the Gazette right after our conversation.”

  “Uh-uh. The Gazette is only published once a week. I read the edition that came out on the Friday after the murder—you gave it to me yourself—and there was no photograph of the deceased. Yet it was on the following Monday that you identified Vincent as the man with Maltese.”

  “Then that shot of Vincent must have appeared in one of the other papers. Maybe the Star-Ledger.”

  “All right. Why don’t I look into that.”

  “Listen, maybe I’m wrong about having recognized the man from the newspaper. I don’t know. It’s possible I just assumed that was Vincent in the photograph. After all, we were in his home.”

  “I tried telling myself that, Lou. I didn’t want to believe you were the one who wasted him. I wanted to believe it was just about anybody but you. The thing is, though, there was a whole bunch of photos on that desk—I remember checking them out on our first visit to the house, while we were killing time waiting for Sheila. And I just couldn’t accept that of all the faces in that collection, you would correctly pick out that one as belonging to Frank Vincent. Still, do you know what was on my mind when I cut out your picture and took it over to the Breeze Inn? I was hoping to prove to myself that I was nuts and that the manager would swear he didn’t know you from Adam.”

  “I’m curious. What made you think about that Maltese business now?” Lou was trying his damnedest to sound nonchalant, but the crack in his voice betrayed his agitation.

  “Yesterday evening I finally got around to reading the write-up about me in the Post. It mentioned that I was investigating the Vincent homicide, and there was a photograph of Frank Vincent shaking hands with the winner of last year’s State Assembly election. Now, I can’t say exactly how the whole thing worked—most likely the thought had been hanging around in my subconscious all this time—but that photo jolted me into the realization that there was something I’d been overlooking. And, well, I finally made the connection.”

  I plunged ahead before Lou could respond. “I’d like to know one thing, though: When did you decide to get rid of me?” As soon as I uttered those words, I no longer felt calm and detached. I had suddenly become the living representation of an exposed nerve.

  “You can’t think I had anything to do with that!”

  “Now, that’s the weird thing. I actually caught a glimpse of you behind the wheel that night.”

  Lou’s expression was one of shock—which immediately turned to skepticism. After all, he’d seen me pull that kind of bluff before. This time, however, the statement was delivered with deep regret. And when I spoke again, I looked him full in the face with my sad, sad eyes. (Which, if you’re going to lie, is really the most convincing way to go about it.)

  “It was the instant before I was struck,” I went on. “The car was alongside me at that point, you remember, so the headlights were no longer blinding me. When I came to, though, I told myself that it couldn’t have been you, that the man j
ust resembled you. I even began to suspect that I’d been hallucinating. At any rate, I forced the whole thing out of my head. It was only today, when I started to put everything together, that I realized I hadn’t made a mistake at all. So I ask you again, Lou: When did you make up your mind to murder me?”

  “God, Dez, I—” Abruptly, Lou got up and rushed from the room. I could hear doors opening and closing as he made a hurried inspection of my shoe box-size living quarters.

  “I wanted to be certain we didn’t have an audience,” he clarified on his return.

  I managed to keep my voice level in spite of the churning inside me. “There’s just the two of us.” But Lou stopped beside his chair, making no move to sit down. “Are you worried I might be wearing a wire?”

  “The thought occurred to me.”

  “Go ahead, then.” Retrieving my crutches from the floor, I got clumsily to my feet and hobbled over to where he was standing. Then I grabbed his hand and placed it on my shoulder. “I said, go ahead.”

  Lou’s cheeks were fire-engine red, but he quickly patted me down. The procedure was performed so impersonally that I might have been a Bloomingdale’s mannequin.

  When we were both seated again, he mumbled, “Sorry. I’m sorry about that, too.” He waved his hand at my injured leg. “Very, very sorry.

  “You know,” he went on a moment later, “it’s funny about that picture—the one with Maltese and Vincent. As soon as I identified Vincent as the other guy in the shot, I realized I’d made a really stupid mistake. But, the thing is, you were in the process of shooting down my drug theory that night, and I was desperate to come up with something else, anything else to throw you off the track, to get you to abandon your Sheila fixation. And when I spotted that photo on the desk, it occurred to me that I might be able to take advantage of Vincent’s relationship with Maltese to tie the shooting in with the mob.