Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (12 page)

I cut her short. “Are you telling us the victim batted his wife around?”

Silence. Then Doris muttered, “But I got the impression . . . from how you spoke, I figured, well, that you
knew
. Damn!” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Damn!” she said again.

Lou was sympathetic. “Don’t worry. We would have learned about it eventually anyway. Something like that was bound to come out.”

“I wish it hadn’t come out of
my mouth,
though,” the woman retorted, her voice tight with self-directed anger.

“How often did this sort of thing occur?” Lou continued.

She was thoughtful for a moment. “It’s hard to say. Sometimes Sheila would show up with a new black-and-blue mark twice in one week, and then I wouldn’t spot any other bruises on her for about a month.”

“Of course, that doesn’t mean they weren’t there—on places you wouldn’t normally have seen,” I reminded her.

“I suppose so,” she conceded.

“I don’t understand something, though. A good friend of yours is being beaten by her husband, and you pretend to be oblivious to that fact because—in your own words—you found it easier?”

“I just didn’t know what to do,” a shamefaced Doris responded. “A few times I was right on the verge of talking to Sheila about it, but it’s not an easy matter to broach, even with someone you’re close to. I was concerned she might resent my interfering. So I’d convince myself it was probably all my imagination anyway, that Sheila must be accident prone—which is what she claimed. And I’d go along with her when she told me she slipped in the kitchen and hit her face on the counter. And that her arm was messed up like that because some kid on a bicycle rammed into her. Still, I think that deep down I knew the truth right from the start. And I should have said something. Believe me, I’m not very proud that I didn’t.”

“When was the last time you noticed any bruising?” Lou asked.

“Come to think of it, it’s been a while. I don’t remember seeing anything after the summer. Or maybe the early fall.” And now Doris’s eyes narrowed, and there was something very close to hostility in the look she passed between Lou and me. “Listen, if you two have got it in your heads that Sheila had Frank shot because he battered her, it doesn’t hold up. In the first place, the idea of murder would never in a million years even occur to her.” (I had, of course, heard this same sentiment expressed with respect to half a dozen killers I could name.) “Secondly,” Doris went on, “Sheila could have just picked up and left Frank if she wanted out of the marriage. She’s a very talented lady, so there wouldn’t have been any problem about making it on her own. Besides, her parents have plenty of money, in case you weren’t aware of it.” (Now, this contention of hers I had to take seriously—particularly since it had occurred to me, too.)

“Why do you think she stayed with him, then?” I was curious to find out if her take was the same as Marilyn Vincent’s.

“I’ve asked myself the same question hundreds of times. That’s one reason I sometimes thought I might be imagining the abuse. There are certain things in a marriage that can be pretty devastating. But letting yourself be used as a punching bag when it would be easy enough to remove yourself from the situation, well . . . And it wasn’t even as if there were any children to consider.”

I can’t say for certain if it was the poignant expression that appeared on the woman’s face at that instant or simply the way she said “children,” but once again I found myself wondering about the Shippman marriage. “Do you have children yourself, Mrs. Shippman?” I had absolutely no inkling that it was going to sneak through my lips.

“Why do you want to know?” she demanded sharply.

“Uh, no reason. Just being conversational.” I smiled. “Or maybe I should say
nosy
. You certainly don’t have to give me an answer.”

“I’m sorry,” Doris responded. “I’m a little tense lately, that’s all—the murder and everything. I only found out from Sheila Saturday night that it was premeditated. At any rate, I have no problem with answering you. I’ve got one child—a son. He’s seventeen.”

Doris Shippman looked far too young to be the mother of a boy that age. And my surprise must have been evident. “I had Danny the summer after I graduated from high school,” she informed me.

“By the way, Mrs. Vincent
was
finally planning to leave her husband. Did you know that?” Lou asked then.

It was obvious the news was a surprise to Doris. “She never said a word.”

I followed up with, “Mrs. Shippman, could your friend have been seeing another man?”

“Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much.”

“Do you think that if she was, she’d have told you?”

“Maybe and maybe not. Sheila can be pretty close mouthed. But as far as taking a lover? Well, considering the sort of person she is, I’m just about positive there was nothing to tell.”

“What about the victim?” Lou said. “Any idea if he might have been in a relationship?”

“Sheila never talked about anything like that, and that’s the only way I would have heard about it. Frank and I didn’t even know the same people—outside of the neighbors and a few family members, I mean. The fact is, I was rarely in his company.”

Lou appeared to be slightly puzzled. “Even with you and his wife being so close?”

“We usually got together just the two of us, Sheila and I. About once a week—normally on Wednesdays, Frank’s late night at the office—we would have dinner out. Very often we’d catch a movie afterward, too, or go bowling or something. And some mornings we would have coffee—either here or at Sheila’s—before I had to leave for class. I’ve gone back to school, would you believe?”

“Oh? What are you studying?” Lou inquired politely.

“I’m taking a course in interior design.”

I made an obvious point of checking out the surroundings, then complimented Doris on her taste before moving on. “Ever hear of a man named Ron Whitfield?”

“I don’t think so. Wait a minute. That’s Sheila’s brother-in-law, isn’t it? I met him last summer at a barbecue of Sheila’s. What does he have to do with anything?”

“Mrs. Vincent was engaged to him at one time.”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

Doris’s eyes narrowed in concentration, and I could almost see her pulling something to the forefront of her mind. “I did wonder, though . . .”

“Wonder what?”

“There was something in the way he looked at her.”

“And what about the way she looked at him?” Lou wanted to know.

“I can’t say I noticed anything special there.”

“This barbecue—when was it?”

“Let’s see, I had just come back from visiting my mother in Ohio. That would mean it had to be the end of July.”

And from me: “Are you aware that Whitfield and his wife have since separated?”

“So I understand.”

“Would you have any idea when that took place?”

It was a couple of seconds before Doris’s grudging: “Around Labor Day, I think.”

For a brief time nobody said anything further. And then Lou inched forward in his chair, which I took as an indication he was ready to terminate our visit. But before getting to his feet he glanced over at me, his raised eyebrows a way of saying, “Anything else you’d like to ask?”

There was. “Oh, one other thing. We’d also like to talk to your husband. Is he at home, by any chance?”

“No, he’s at work.”

“When do you expect him?”

Doris’s face colored. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. Listen, why don’t I give you his card, and you can get in touch with him at the office. I think that would be best.” Clearly uncomfortable with her inability to provide a more definitive response, she found it necessary to add, “Andy frequently becomes so caught up in his business that he even forgets to call and let me know if I should hold dinner for him.” Somehow she managed an indulgent smile. “Men,” she said.

 

“That’s a lady with troubles,” I commented as we walked down the porch steps.

Lou was attempting to stuff Mr. Shippman’s business card into an already overstuffed wallet. He looked up, perplexed. “What makes you think so?”

I was amazed at this failure to pick up on what couldn’t have been more apparent. Shaking my head in disbelief, I borrowed my response from Doris Shippman. “Men,” I said.

Would you believe there was still no answer at Sheila’s when we rang the doorbell again?

Lou and I toyed with the idea of talking to a few more of the neighbors. Maybe Sheila would return in the interim. But we soon decided that at least one of the occupants of every residence would very likely be at his or her job at this hour, and we’d only have to come by a second time. So we unanimously voted against it. Also, we wisely opted not to hang around and wait for the widow any longer. I mean, who knew when she’d finally turn up?

We slid a second note under her door, asking that she contact us at the station house. And then after dropping into a local deli for some much-needed sustenance, we returned to home base.

“Why don’t we try to get Shippman now?” I asked as we walked to the back of the main room, heading for our respective offices.

“Good idea.” Lou stopped just where he was and extracted his bulging wallet from his pants pocket. Next came the tough part. In his attempt to locate Shippman’s phone number, he pulled out business card after business card, along with crumpled message slips and what looked suspiciously like old shopping lists. Naturally, a good portion of the wallet’s contents ended up on the floor. He glanced at me sheepishly before bending to scoop them up. “Maybe I’d better do this in my office, huh?”

About ten minutes later, he marched into my cubicle, tossing Shippman’s card on my desk. “It was a tough fight, Ma,” he said, smiling.

I picked up the card. It read “Shippman and Reid, Inc., Exclusive Furniture Designs, Andrew Shippman, President.” There were two telephone numbers below the name.

“See if you can reach him, huh, Desiree? I’ve got a couple of things to do that probably should take precedence.”

“Sure. Okay if I try and set something up for tonight?”

“Yeah. If you can.”

 

Andrew Shippman was pleasant enough—until I said I was with the Riverton police. (Which wasn’t exactly a lie.) And then cordiality flew right out the window.

“I’m sorry,” he told me curtly when I requested a meeting, “but I couldn’t possibly see you this evening. I have no idea what time I’ll be able to get out of here—I’m up to my ears in work. Tomorrow’s no good, either. Besides, Detective, I wouldn’t be of any help to the police. I don’t know a thing about Frank Vincent’s murder. I didn’t even know Vincent very well.”

I responded that I, too, was sorry. Nevertheless, it was important he talk to us. It would only take a few minutes, I assured him—lying through my recently scraped and polished teeth.

Shippman started to protest, but I spoke right over the words. “Don’t worry, though,” I said, drowning him out. “If it’s impossible for you to see us in your home, my partner and I can stop by your office. Or maybe you’d prefer to come down to the station . . .”

Apparently both these alternatives were even less attractive to Shippman than the prospect of our paying him a house call. So in the end he agreed to the house call. It was arranged for nine p.m. the following night.

 

I had intended to spend the rest of the day transcribing my notes on the investigation—which I had yet even to touch. Of course, I knew I’d barely be able to put a dent in them in a single afternoon, since I work at a speed that would embarrass your average snail. The thing is, I was never what you could characterize as a whiz-bang typist, to start with. Plus, I can’t seem to resist attempting to take in the information while I’m transcribing it, and this slows me down even more. (But, yes, I am able to walk and chew gum at the same time, thank you.)

Anyhow, turning on the computer, I vowed that I’d restrict myself to the typing part today. That way I’d cover a lot more ground.

The intercom buzzed before I’d even placed my fingers on the keys. Chief Hicks would appreciate seeing Lou and me in his office.

It was a brief meeting, during which Hicks did a lot of grousing about the report Lou had just turned in on the Vincent investigation. Then he asked me if
I
thought we were making progress.

“If you want to know if we have a line on the killer yet, the answer is no. But we
are
gathering the facts, and I’m hopeful that when we’re through talking to everyone, things will begin to make some sense.”

“I’m hopeful, too,” he responded. “This case is top priority. But I don’t have to tell
you
that, do I, Miss Shapiro?”

His tone was about as warm as the inside of an igloo. I was so resentful of his attitude that I felt it would be more prudent to stick to a nonverbal reply. Gnashing my teeth, I shook my head.

He shifted his focus to his lieutenant. “One more thing, Lou. Much as I’d have liked to keep a lid on this mess a little longer, I’ve already had calls from two of the newspapers. Seems they’ve started hearing things about premeditation, and they want us to confirm. I promised Higgins at the
Gazette
you’d get back to him in the morning. This new guy at the
Newark Star-Ledger
will be trying you again tomorrow. Give them as little as you can get away with, and whatever you do, don’t mention the involvement of Miss Shapiro here. I told them you’re heading up a team of detectives, so just leave it at that. The entire state doesn’t have to know that a couple of our more ‘influential’ citizens don’t consider the Riverton police capable of conducting an investigation without the assistance of some—” He broke off, scowling, then settled for “without outside assistance.”

The focus returned to me. “Sorry, Miss Shapiro,” he informed me in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “but it looks like you’re still going to have to wait a while for your fifteen minutes of fame.”