Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (10 page)

“Umm, I’m not exactly sure,” I admitted.

“If I’d quit at my normal time on Wednesday, I might have been able to attest to the car’s being at the scene that much earlier than I’m able to do now. And naturally, it could have been there even before
that
.”

“I see what you mean, and I apologize again,” I told him. Which was actually pretty big of me, considering that it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference even if the Camry had been parked there since nine a.m. The fact that the perpetrator was known to have waited two hours for his victim to emerge from that building was good enough for me.

“Just one thing more,” I said. “Working in the same building like that, were you acquainted with Mr. Vincent?”

“No, I never met the man. I may have seen him in the elevator or something, but if I did, I don’t recall.” Ross checked his watch now. “Say, do you have any idea what time it is? My wife is going to
kill
me. I was supposed to drive her over to her mother’s a half hour ago.”

He looked at Lou accusingly. “And you
swore
to me this would only take a few minutes.”

 

“He’s some piece of work,” I commented when Charlie Ross had made his exit at last. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“It’s something you have to experience to really appreciate.”

“Probably. But I can’t understand how you could subject yourself to that impossible person a second time.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it was easy. But it was worth it.”

I was immediately concerned that Lou had picked up on something during this session with Ross that I’d overlooked. “What do you mean?”

He chuckled. “Watching your reaction to his going on and on like that? Well, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

Maybe it’s because I can be too sensitive for my own good, but driving over to Oakview Road, I began to wonder about Lou’s not wanting to miss out on my reaction to Charlie Ross.

Did he enjoy seeing me in uncomfortable situations—was that what he was
really
saying? Or was I just being paranoid—and was the man only kidding around?

I was still wrestling with these questions when we pulled up in front of the Shippmans’ imposing red-brick house.

 

We waited. Then waited some more. But after Lou had pressed the doorbell four separate times at decent intervals, we finally had to acknowledge the likelihood that there was no one home. Well, we’d just have to try the widow’s close friend again later. In the meantime, it seemed like a good idea to begin this afternoon’s visits with one of the Vincents’ next-door neighbors.

 

Robert and Billie Kovacs lived to the immediate right of Frank and Sheila Vincent.

Retired and in their seventies, the Kovacses spent a good deal of time traveling and knew the Vincents only casually. Nevertheless, a kindly Billie pronounced them “fine, professional people” and “a lovely and devoted couple.”

Her less sweet-natured husband immediately disputed this. He would often hear them shouting at each other, he disclosed, particularly during the summer when he was working in the garden and the Vincents had their windows open. “I could see where they’d prefer the fresh air to freezing their parts off with the air-conditioning—Billie and I do, too. But with the language that guy used, they should have kept those windows shut tight.” And when Billie began to admonish him: “You’d know it’s true, dear, if you ever wore your hearing aid like you’re supposed to.”

We asked if they were aware of anyone who might have had a grudge against Frank. They weren’t. And if they had any idea if either of the Vincents might have been seeing someone else. They didn’t. Although Robert—with Billie turned away and unable to read his lips—couldn’t seem to resist adding, “But the way Frank Vincent treated his wife, I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had two or three guys on the side.”

Soon after this Robert Kovacs showed us to the door. Now, I hadn’t had time to get any cards printed, of course, but last night I’d unearthed a box of blank business cards in my bedroom closet (of all places). And I’d grabbed a bunch of them and jotted down my name and both my phone number at the Riverton Police Department and at home. I handed one to Robert Kovaks “in case you think of anything else.”

 

After a second unproductive assault on the Shippman doorbell, we settled for the Contis, who lived just to the left of the Vincents. Then following a somewhat lengthy stay there, we had brief visits with the Bergers, Mrs. Rafferty, and the Lees.

Nothing.

Aside from Robert Kovacs, all their neighbors agreed that Frank and Sheila were a delightful couple. No one could even imagine why someone would want to harm such a
charming
man. Nor was anyone able to enlighten us as to any mysterious lover that Sheila and/or Frank might have had.

When we left the Lees, Lou said, “I don’t know about you, but it’s after six, and I wouldn’t mind grabbing something to eat.”

“What about Doris Shippman?”

“Don’t worry,” he responded with a grin. “She’s not likely to be abducted by aliens if we put her on hold for a little while. Besides, she’s probably not even home yet.”

I didn’t argue. Mostly because it looked as if he was right. We were now directly across the street from the Shippman house, and there wasn’t a ray of light peeking out of a single window.

“Why don’t we take a break and have another go at this later?” Lou suggested. “We could get some dinner and after that come back to see a few more of the neighbors. Maybe the Shippman woman will be in by that time, too. If you’ve had enough for today, though, just say the word, and I’ll drive you back to the station house so you can pick up your car.”

“I’d rather have dinner and then take another shot at the neighbors,” I told him, immediately throwing in, “if that’s all right with you.”

“It’s fine with me. Now, about this meal of ours. There’s this really exceptional Italian place not far from here . . .”

Danny’s was a small, unpretentious restaurant with white paper tablecloths, plain wood floors, and red leatherette booths that couldn’t hide the fact they’d endured years of maltreatment. We’d just given our food order and Lou’s beer mug was headed for his lips. I hurriedly touched it with my wine glass. “Here’s to a successful partnership.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he responded, deadpan.

Silence followed.

At last I blurted out what was actually on my mind. “Listen, Lou, it’s obvious that you resent this entire arrangement like hell—I mean, having me foisted on you like this. And you know something? I don’t doubt that if the situation were reversed, I’d react that way, too. But please remember that we both have the same goal.” I took a deep breath. “Look,” I proposed almost pleadingly, “is there any chance you could put your antagonism toward me on hold for a while—if for no other reason than that it could end up getting in the way of the investigation?” My eyes were moist now—and it wasn’t for effect, either. At least, not altogether.

Maybe this helped to soften Lou’s attitude a bit, because he even patted my hand when he said, “I owe you an apology, Desiree. You’re absolutely right. I
have
been resentful about having to work with you. And not too concerned about hiding it, either. But I hope you realize that it’s nothing personal.”

“I like to think it isn’t.”

“Well, it’s not. And you’re also right about the possibility of my attitude affecting the investigation. From here on, I’ll just have to keep reminding myself that you’re a person with a job to to do”—and he grinned—“not just something inflicted on me for past sins.”

“And for my part, I’ll try not to be too much of a pain in the ass.”

“Deal.” Then mercifully, Lou changed the subject.

“Hey, living in Manhattan, you probably go to the theater pretty often. Can you recommend something that might appeal to a sixteen-year-old girl? My niece is coming in from Phoenix next month, and I’d like to take her to a Broadway show.”

Well, I don’t get to the theater very much at all. I’m constantly promising myself I’ll pick up tickets to something or other, but then—I don’t know—I just don’t follow through. I was able to offer three or four suggestions, though, and Lou seemed satisfied. (I’m not totally certain, however, that he was really interested in my recommendations; he might merely have been attempting to ease the strain.) Anyhow, after this the conversation segued easily from Lou’s niece Dina to my niece Ellen and then on to Lou’s son Jake, who would be going off to college next year.

“He’s a great kid,” Lou told me. “Likeable, smart—better than a B average—considerate . . . His mother would have been so proud of him. Naturally, I’ll miss him a lot when he’s away at school, but I can’t keep him home with me forever.” As soon as the words were out, Lou appeared to be embarrassed at having talked the boy up. Or maybe it was more about revealing his feelings like this. “Don’t get me wrong, though,” he said, smiling. “Jake’s no saint. There were plenty of times, especially when he was younger, when I was tempted to toss him out on his butt.”

Suddenly I felt a pang. The man must be lonely—or, at any rate, he would be, once Jake was out of the house. I wondered if he dated much—Lou, I mean. Hey, maybe I knew someone for him. I was a pretty good fixer-upper. Hadn’t I been responsible for getting Ellen and Mike together? (Never mind the long list of disasters that could also be laid on my doorstep.) I began to concentrate in earnest.
Let me see . . . my neighbor Barbara Gleason? Nah, too—

Lou broke into my thoughts, a mischievous look in his eyes. “Listen, I can’t help it. I’m curious. Who hired you for this Vincent thing, anyway?”

“I wish I could tell you,” I responded apologetically, “but my client wants to be kept completely out of it.”

“I bet myself ten bucks you’d say something like that. Wait a minute. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we play ‘Twenty Questions’? That would be the sporting thing to do. Question number one: Was it a man?”

“Forget it,” I told him. “I’ve never been much of a sport.”

“Whoever it is must have been very fond of Frank Vincent to spend all that money on a PI. I assume you
are
being paid a whole lot of money.”

“Millions.”

Lou laughed. “Good for you.”

Moments later we went on to another topic. And then to another. By the time I’d polished off my eggplant parmigiana (it was really
primo,
too), I realized that I was feeling truly comfortable with this man. He was, I decided, a genuinely decent person—as I’d suspected almost from the start. Could be he was beginning to discover that I wasn’t so bad, either. Maybe he hadn’t totally buried his hostility toward me, but at least he was able to suspend it for a while.

Neither of us spoke about the case—aside from Lou’s aborted attempt at uncovering my employer, that is—until we’d wound down to the coffee and cheesecake. And then it received only the briefest of mentions.

“Our talks with the neighbors haven’t produced much in the way of results so far, have they?” Lou observed.

“You can say that again.”

“Well, maybe we’ll do better later on this evening.” But there wasn’t gong to be any “later on.”

Because the truth is, I can’t drink worth spit.

I never even finished that one lousy glass of Chianti, and still my head was starting to feel like it was full of cobwebs. I wasn’t drunk, you understand. I wasn’t even tipsy. But I recognized that I wasn’t exactly in top mental form, either. So it just didn’t make any sense to resume questioning the people on Oakview Road. I mean, I wouldn’t have picked up on a clue if someone dropped it right on my pinkie toe.

“Do you mind if we postpone Doris Shippman and the other neighbors until tomorrow?” I asked Lou.

“No, but why? You feeling all right?”

I explained about me and wine.

Lou immediately signaled to the waitress to refill my coffee mug. And only a few minutes later, to refill it again. But in spite of my having so much caffeine in me to combat so little wine, I had to assure him twice that I was okay to drive.

“Be careful going home,” he instructed when he let me off at my car some time afterward.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. You’re not lucky enough to get rid of me that easily,” I joked. “Tomorrow I’ll be back on Oakview Road with you, pestering everyone who’ll open their door.”

“Speaking of that, tell me something. What makes you so convinced that one of the Vincents—and I know your money’s on the widow—must have had a lover?”

“Oh, I’m not convinced at all.”

“So why—”

“Because for right now, anyhow, if we didn’t have that to pursue, what would we have?”

On the trip back to the city, I thought about Al a lot. I suddenly wanted very much to talk to him, to hear his voice. I wondered if he’d phoned yet this evening and I’d missed his call.

It was after ten when I walked into my apartment. The first thing I did was check for messages. There weren’t any. But just as I turned away from the machine, the telephone rang.

It was Al.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” he said. “When did you come in?”

“Oh, about three seconds ago.”

“How’s everything going?”

“Slowly, thank you.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get there. I have faith,” he pronounced solemnly.

“And how are things in Las Vegas?”

“A little hectic. But they were great last night. My buddy and I ended up with last-minute tickets to Siegfried and Roy, and it was really incredible. I found myself wishing I were there with you, though. I know this sounds silly—I’ve only been out here a couple of days, and it’s not as if we see each other all the time—but being so far away, well, I really miss you, Dez.”