Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (11 page)

“I miss you, too,” I told him.

We spoke for maybe five minutes longer, and when we hung up I felt all warm and safe and cared for. That’s the effect Al always had on me.
This alone should make things work for us,
I told myself.

And then from some other, less sunny place a small, spiteful voice piped up,
Yeah? Sez who?

 

Almost immediately after arriving at the Riverton police station at nine the next morning—which meant getting up at an ungodly six-thirty a.m.—I went next door to Lou’s office.

“Drugs,” he informed me.

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘Drugs.’ ”

“Yes, I know that’s what you
said
. It’s what you’re getting at that’s throwing me.”

“Listen, the last thing you told me yesterday was that if we didn’t have this supposed affair to look into, we’d have nothing. And that got me to thinking. We have a shooter here who hung around for hours to take a pop at Vincent. And I kept trying to come up with something else that could have merited a stakeout like that.

“There wasn’t anything special in Vincent’s effects. True, he was wearing some decent jewelry and there was over two hundred in cash, which isn’t a bad haul. But how would the perp have known that? Besides, it was no more than he—or maybe she—could have gotten off plenty of other people in that area. Then it struck me: Suppose the killer was expecting the victim to have something a lot more valuable on him that night.”

“Drugs, huh?” I said quietly, attempting to absorb the concept.

“Right. And it’s conceivable the perpetrator was able to rip them off before Lottie Schmidt started screaming. Either that, or Vincent wasn’t carrying on Wednesday, and the shooter had to leave empty handed.”

“Drugs,” I repeated. “I suppose it is possible. Maybe . . .”

Just then a big, blond, Nordic-looking individual of forty-something materialized in the doorway.

“I’ll see you later,” the man told Lou. “I’m interrupting something.”

“As a matter of fact, you are. But come in for a minute anyway, and say hello to Desiree Shapiro. Desiree, this is Walter Peterson—Pete.”

The officer I’d replaced on the Frank Vincent homicide walked over to where I was sitting and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure. Especially seeing that you’re the one responsible for my getting sprung from the Vincent case.”

“Pete’s not crazy about high-profile investigations,” Lou commented dryly.

“Hey, who needs to work under a microscope like that?” Peterson retorted. He winked at me. “Except maybe Lieutenant Lou here. But I don’t have his ambition.”

“You don’t have
anyone’s
ambition,” Lou volleyed back, shaking his head while a fond smile played on his lips.

Peterson shrugged. “You could be right. Well, I’d better let you two hot-shots earn your money. Nice meeting you, Desiree.”

“Same here.”

Exit Peterson.

“I think we should have another talk with the grieving widow, don’t you?” I put to Lou now.

“Yep.” And opening the file in front of him, he quickly laid hands on Sheila Vincent’s phone number. I hung around while he made the call.

After a brief exchange punctuated by a nod or two, Lou replaced the receiver, a satisfied expression on his face. “She has a dentist’s appointment this morning, but she expects to be back in an hour.”

“Good. In the meantime, I’m going to give cousin Marilyn a ring.”

“Oh?”

“I want to ask her where we can get in touch with a few people: Sheila’s former fiancé, her publisher, her sister . . . Umm, I figure it might also pay to hear what she has to say about Frank’s dealing drugs.” The truth was, I’d begun to have second thoughts about this theory of Lou’s almost at once, and I had the idea it might be worthwhile to get some feedback from this relative who’d grown up with Frank Vincent. “Care to join me in my office while I talk to her?” I invited.

“No, you go on. You can fill me in when you’re through.”

 

Marilyn Vincent was wary the instant I announced myself.

With what sounded almost like relief, she supplied me with the name of Ron Whitfield’s firm, Morgan Sklaar’s publishing house, and the town Marsha Whitfield—the widow’s sister—was living in. Following which there was a hurried, “If that’s all, Detective Shapiro—”

“Not quite. I won’t keep you much longer, Ms. Vincent, but there’s something I’d like to ask you about your cousin Frank.”

“Sure, no problem.” But the wariness had returned to her voice.

“What if I told you there’s been a suggestion that he might have been dealing?”

Marilyn was incredulous. “Drugs? Frankie? I’d say you were nuts. Stark, raving bonkers.”

“Why? Isn’t it possible?”

“Not a chance. Frankie wouldn’t have taken that kind of risk. Believe me, all he ever wanted since I-don’t-know-when was to be a big shot, someone important. Apparently being a chiropractor didn’t do it for him. But now it looked like he was finally getting the opportunity to go into politics. In fact, he already had his foot in the door. Even though he lost the race for the assembly last year, the party was so impressed with his showing that they were grooming him for bigger and better things. At least, that’s what he told me. And I’m certain it was true, too. Listen, Frankie would never have gotten involved in anything that could mess up his future. Of that, I’m positive.”

 

“It makes sense,” I declared to Lou a few minutes later. “When you really think about it, drugs don’t fit in with what
we
know about the victim, either. I hate to say this, Lou, but if you ask me, we’re back where we started.”

“Not so fast. Having the same grandparents doesn’t exactly make cousin Marilyn an expert on Vincent. Maybe he was desperate for the bucks—running for office can be pretty damned expensive, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Well, of course there was no way I could tell Lou that this was one aspiring politician who didn’t have to be concerned about funding. “Vincent wouldn’t have risked it,” I said stubbornly.

“Maybe not. But before I reach any conclusion about that, I’m going to keep our appointment with Sheila Vincent. Don’t forget, she was related to the man, too.”

“By the way, I left a message on Doris Shippman’s machine last night,” Lou informed me in the car, “and she returned my call this morning. She only has this one class today—she must be a teacher—and she was due home by a little past eleven. So we can pay her a visit after we’re through at Sheila’s.” There was a pause. “Listen, Desiree, let me ask you this: As you know from my report, last week Pete and I questioned everyone who was working in those two buildings on Hedden Circle that Wednesday. Also, we contacted any visitors to the companies over there that day—including delivery people. You want to talk to them all yourself anyway?”

Well, considering the tone of his voice, I could just about picture Lou’s face if I answered in the affirmative. “You didn’t come across any witnesses, I gather.”

“You kidding? Hardly anyone was still around at the time of the shooting.”

“What about earlier? Did anybody notice the Camry?”

“I’d guess the car wasn’t there much before six—the perp was probably waiting until most of the people had left for home. One woman thought she
might
have walked by it, but she wasn’t sure—that was around six-fifteen.”

“It sounds like you and Pete already established that no one in those buildings can be of help to us. So I’ll pass.”

Lou nodded, his face a blank, but I knew he must be satisfied with the response.

Then I remembered something. “What about Vincent’s secretary or receptionist or whatever she is, though? As I recall, she didn’t stay late on Wednesday, did she?”

“Receptionist,” Lou clarified. He snickered. “Her stay late? Not on your life.
Ms.
Taylor is fifty if she’s a day, and a real beaut. False eyelashes, dyed red hair”—of course I winced at this one—“and makeup she must pile on with a shovel. She said if
he
wanted to spend half his life in that place, it was okay with her, but he couldn’t pay her enough to work past five. After all, she has a social life to consider.”

“Did you, uh, ask her about any enemies Vincent might have had?” I inquired timidly.

“What do
you
think?” Lou retorted, his tone a shade irritable. Then more evenly: “She looked at us like we were crazy for even putting the question to her. ‘How would I know?’ she answered. ‘Go talk to that rich, hoity-toity wife of his.’ ”

Now, I could always meet with the receptionist later on, if it came to that. So in the interests of our recently established—and tenuous—harmony, I told Lou I’d pass on Ms. Taylor, too.

He seemed pleased with my decision.

“Listen, there’s something else I wanted to check out with you, too,” I said.

“Sure.”

“Heard anything on the fingerprints yet—the ones in the Camry?”

“Yeah. And the bottom line is, forget it,” he grumbled. “Just like I figured.”

“Oh, and I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the murder weapon. I assume you haven’t had any luck there, either?”

“A hundred percent correct. So far the damn thing hasn’t turned up. All I can tell you at this point is that according to the ballistics report, Vincent was killed with a 9-millimeter semiautomatic.

“Incidentally, I placed a couple of calls to Paris this morning, at one-thirty to be specific. I had trouble sleeping—too much Italian food, probably, along with a little too much thinking—and making those phone calls beat having to watch what was on TV. Anyhow, it was seven-thirty a.m. over there, and I talked to that Chinese lady, Claire Wu. She confirmed driving out to the Loire Valley with the widow. She was with her from Tuesday morning until Thursday night, she told me. I wasn’t able to reach the second woman, but we can give it another shot later. If we try around noon, we may catch her when she comes home from work—assuming she has regular hours, of course.”

“Why bother? The alibi appears to hold up. But then, I expected it would, didn’t you? I mean, Sheila Vincent wouldn’t have mentioned being with friends unless she was certain of what they’d be telling us.” I sighed. “So if Mrs. Vincent was involved in her husband’s death, she had somebody else do her dirty work for her. The question is—”

Lou held up his hand to end the speculation—which, I suppose, is borderline more polite than if he’d verbally shut me up. “I want to remind you,” he said quietly, “of the word you just used.”

“What word?”

“
If.
You said
if
she had anything to do with his death. That
if
is something you’re going to have to keep in mind, you know. We’re even checking out a second theory now, or have you forgotten why we’re headed for the Vincent place this very minute?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten. And you’re absolutely right. It’s important to be open to other possibilities.” But the next instant I returned to my speculations—this time keeping them to myself.
Who had the widow enlisted to pull that trigger for her, anyway?

If
she was responsible for her husband’s murder, that is.

We sat in that damn car for over a half hour—my buns getting more numb with every passing second—and Sheila Vincent still didn’t show her face. Or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.

I made what I considered to be a very practical suggestion. “Why don’t we try Doris Shippman first, then?”

“Okay,” Lou agreed—my hand was on the door handle—“if Mrs. Vincent doesn’t get back in another five minutes.”

We waited that other five minutes. And after this, five more. No widow Vincent. Finally Lou had also had enough. (Maybe his buns were beginning to act up on him, too.) So we scribbled a message that said we’d be back in about an hour, put the time on it, and slipped it under Sheila’s front door.

Then we headed for the red brick house diagonally across the street.

 

“But you
can’t
believe Sheila had anything to do with Frank’s murder!”

Lou and I had been questioning Doris Shippman in her spacious, cheerfully furnished living room for a short while. And having just been advised that she had no idea who might have wanted the victim dead, we’d moved on to the topic of the Vincent marriage.

“No one believes anything right now, Mrs. Shippman,” Lou assured her. “We’re just trying to get all the facts.”

“I’m no fool,” the attractive brunette snapped. “You wouldn’t be asking me how Sheila and Frank got along if you didn’t have some doubts about her.”

“Honestly, this is normal procedure,” I put in.

She didn’t appear to be convinced, but she mumbled something that vaguely resembled “okay,” which I took as permission to try again.

“You’re aware that there was real trouble there, aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t think
aware
is the right word. I did have my suspicions, though.”

And from Lou: “But Mrs. Vincent never confided in you?”

“I guess she was ashamed. Women
are
ashamed of that kind of thing, you know.”

Something in her tone gave me the idea that Doris and Whatever-his-given-name-was Shippman might not exactly be reveling in wedded bliss, either. I had to inform myself that it was highly unlikely the state of the Shippman union could impact at all on our investigation. And if that was the case, their relationship was none of my business. (This second point wasn’t a very potent argument, however, since it had rarely deterred me before.) At any rate, forcing myself to abandon this line of thought, I concentrated on the Vincents again. “So when did you begin to suspect what was going on?”

“I guess it must have been about a year ago,” Doris answered. “Sheila always explained things away, of course, and I always accepted the explanation—maybe because it was easier that way. But those bruises were—”