I was about to slip on my coat when she murmured, “I want you to know that a part of me doesn’t feel very good about what I did today.” There was pain on her face.
“Look,” I responded gently, “whatever happens to Sheila, keep in mind that her husband was the one who gave her that perfume. And no matter how much of a louse the man was, I like to think he had a hand in seeing that she gets hers.
“Don’t you?”
Here’s a preview of the next Desiree Shapiro mystery, coming in early 2001 . . .
Listening to Miriam Weiden’s phone message that night, I was totally dumbstruck. Here she was, frantically informing my answering machine that someone was trying to kill her. And it just didn’t make any sense. Not from what I knew of the woman.
Of course, I have to admit that I didn’t come by most of my knowledge firsthand. In fact, I’d only been in her company once about three years earlier. The man I was seeing then—although I guess I shouldn’t say “was seeing” because I only went out with him a couple of times—had taken me to this formal benefit dinner. He was a big muck-a-muck at one of the television stations, and he went to those things pretty frequently. Me? It was my first—and only—venture into society.
We were seated at the same table—Mrs. Weiden, the muck-a-muck, and I. Initially I had no idea who she was. Her face wasn’t the least bit familiar, and it wasn’t as if her name were Trump or Tisch or anything. But over our poached salmon pipérade, she and I chatted briefly. And I learned that the woman was a true philanthropist—and that she refused to take any credit at all for her generosity. She regarded herself as blessed to have the means to be able to help those less fortunate.
At any rate, after that evening I’d spot a line or two in the New York papers every so often mentioning that she had contributed a humongous amount to some worthy cause or that she’d be chairing an important, star-studded charity event. But most telling of all were the photographs I would occasionally come across. I remember a picture of her reading to the children in a hospital ward. And another showing her carrying hot meals to shut-ins. More recently there was even a shot of her dishing out food at a local soup kitchen.
It’s possible you’ve seen her photo yourself: an attractive lady somewhere in her forties, with a better-than-average figure, nice, regular features, and dark, shoulder-length hair, the hairline forming a widow’s peak. (Some mean-spirited columnist had once written that the hairline had been surgically created. Well, that was Mrs. Weiden’s business. And anyway, big deal.) Most likely, though, you’d have had to read the accompanying caption to identify her.
Still, so what if she hadn’t achieved genuine celebrity status? Miriam Weiden was certainly the most impressive person I’d ever met. As far as I was concerned, she was maybe one step removed from sainthood. Believe me, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised to learn that she’d been canonized. But a target for murder?
I don’t suppose that anyone is immune from evil, though. And as I listened to her desperate cry for help that night, it was apparent that, for whatever reason, somebody wanted Mrs. Weiden dead. And very, very soon that’s exactly what she was.
Thanks in part, I’m afraid, to yours truly.
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Warning: A small percentage of fresh eggs have been shown to contain salmonella bacteria. Please do not use this recipe if you have reason to believe that the eggs in your area are not safe or if the medical condition of people who will consume this dessert makes them especially vulnerable to this bacteria.
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 29
