Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (15 page)

“Of course, I haven’t abandoned the idea it was da Silva himself who was responsible for the hit,” he informed me. “I certainly wouldn’t put it past him.” He anticipated my protest. “Listen, the guy might have had his own reasons for wanting it to seem like Vincent’s death occurred during a robbery.” Lou stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The problem is, I haven’t been able to figure out why da Silva would order his good buddy whacked.”

Well, I could be thankful for that much, at any rate. And then Lou threw in three additional—and, in my opinion, totally uncalled for—words: “Not yet, anyway.”

We had reached the end of the walkway. But instead of proceeding up the steps of the front porch, Lou stopped abruptly and took hold of my arm. “So what do you think? About the possibility of mob involvement, that is.”

“Well,” I answered halfheartedly, “it does make more sense than the drug thing.”

“Look, Desiree,” he said, his tone slightly defensive, “I’m trying to nail down a motive for this murder. Same as you.” And now he took his shot: “Only I’m not putting all
my
eggs between the bedsheets.”

That evening Lou and I got to see most of the neighbors we hadn’t talked to yesterday: the Rossis, the Goodmans, the Raphaels, the Clarks, the Wilsons, and Mrs. Stemple and her two teenage daughters, Ellie and Jean.

It didn’t surprise either of us that much to be told—again and again—how nice “poor” Frank was. But then right after this—and also no big surprise—everyone admitted they barely knew the man.

We posed our usual question about enemies:
Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against the victim?

A firm “no” was the unanimous response. Besides, they all informed us, Frank was just so
charming
that it was almost impossible to believe someone might have wanted him dead.

Sheila? A lovely woman. They were
such
an attractive pair, and so happy together, too. But a couple of people did add the disclaimer that you could never actually be sure about a thing like that, though, could you?

It goes without saying that no one suspected either of the Vincents of having an affair.

And while we’re on the subject, as far as I was concerned, Gene Rossi—a not-bad-looking architect in his early forties—was, to date, the only conceivable candidate around here for Sheila Vincent’s affections. But Rossi had what would prove to be an airtight alibi: His boss had been over for dinner Wednesday evening.

As for the rest of the Oakview Road males I’d met, each in turn had been quickly discarded as a possible lover to the widow Vincent. Naturally, the reasons varied. (Can you, for example, picture her in a passionate embrace with Marcus Goodman, who had a wart on his nose the size of a baseball?) But the bottom line is that I didn’t find any of them even remotely suited to the role.

We wound up Monday’s interrogations with the Stemples. There was still one house to go, but it was completely dark. I asked Mrs. Stemple if she had any idea when we’d be likely to find someone at home. Before she could respond, Jean Stemple, age thirteen, advised us that the place belonged to Fern Lewis, “an ugly old divorced lady” who spent most of her time traveling back and forth to California, visiting her “ugly cross-eyed daughter.” Which, according to Jean, was undoubtedly where she was right now.

So that was that.

Of course, it shouldn’t be too difficult to catch Fern Lewis between plane trips. But I wasn’t very encouraged about what questioning her would accomplish. Not if her neighbors were any indication.

I communicated my feelings to Lou.

“Don’t be so quick to throw in the towel,” he admonished. “Maybe she’ll be the one with some information for us. Anyhow, you handed everyone your card, right? It’s always possible somebody will think of something and get in touch with us.”

I gave him a black look.

“Hey,” he responded, straining to sound upbeat, “it could happen.”

 

As usual, when I walked into the apartment later that night, I immediately checked my messages.

The first voice on the answering machine was Al’s. He was sorry to have missed me, he said; I was sorry, too. He was going out now, and he’d call again tomorrow.

My nervous Nellie of a niece had also phoned. “Why haven’t I heard from you?” she demanded, her tone suggesting she was only a baby step away from panic. “Are you okay? Call me—no matter what time you come in.”

Now, since I’d spoken to her as recently as Saturday and this was only Monday, and probably also because I was discouraged about how the investigation was proceeding, and due to the fact, too, that I was practically sleepwalking just then, my initial reaction was irritation. But I reminded myself at once that I was lucky Ellen cared enough about me to drive me this crazy. Especially since I’m not even her
real
aunt. No, that’s not right; I’m real enough. But, as I believe I’ve already told you, we’re only related by marriage—my late husband Ed and my sister-in-law Margot, Ellen’s mother, having been siblings.

I glanced at my watch. It was after twelve-thirty, which meant it was way past Ellen’s bedtime. But she
had
left word to call her whenever I got home. So, shrugging, I picked up the phone.

“Mmmf. Hello?” said the voice of someone who had obviously been summoned out of a sound sleep.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Ellen. I woke you, didn’t I?”

“Well,” she admitted, embarrassed, “I suppose I did kind of doze off for a time—but only for a few minutes. I was watching this dumb show on TV while I was waiting for you to phone, and I guess that’s what did it. I
was
really worried about you, though,” she put in hastily.

“I know that.” I mean, Ellen wouldn’t be Ellen if she didn’t worry herself sick on occasion. Even though—as I mentioned before—since Mike, she takes things a lot more in stride than she used to. To give you some idea: The old Ellen would probably have left
three
messages on my machine tonight. And she’d never have been able to fall asleep before I got back to her—regardless of how dumb that television program was.

“Anyway,” she said, “I wanted to find out if everything was all right.”

“Everything’s fine.”

“How are you doing with the investigation?”

“Not as well as I’d like. I still don’t have a clue as to the identity of the killer.”

“Of course you don’t,” Ellen retorted. “What do you expect? You’ve only been on the case a few days. That gangster client of yours—he isn’t giving you a hard time or anything, is he?”

“Don’t be silly.” But I thought of Lou’s theory that the perpetrator might be one of da Silva’s “associates.” And again my stomach—the only part of my entire anatomy with the least bit of athletic ability—did one of its acrobatic things. “Mr. da Silva has been very nice,” I added to reassure her.

“I still don’t like the idea of—”

Attempting to divert her, I switched to her favorite topic. “How’s Mike?” I asked.

“Great.” But for once, Ellen didn’t enumerate his many virtues. Or even update me on their recent and forthcoming activities. Instead, she wanted to know if Al had phoned me from Las Vegas.

“I spoke to him last night,” I said offhandedly. I didn’t mention tonight’s message—or Saturday’s—because I was concerned that she’d put too much stock in the fact he was calling so frequently.

Apparently my withholding this information didn’t make all that much difference. “So?” she demanded eagerly.

I had no difficulty interpreting the question. “So we’ll see. It’s too soon to tell yet where things are headed. If I were you, though”—and now there was a touch of sarcasm in my tone—“I wouldn’t start shopping for my flower-girl dress yet.”

Not finding this a particularly satisfying response, Ellen attempted to establish a backup to Al. “And how is that cute partner of yours?”

“For heaven’s sake, Ellen! I told you last time that Lou Hoffman is not cute. Repeat,
not
. He is, however, a very capable police officer. Which is all I’m interested in.”

“Okay, okay. I must have misunderstood you.”

Or, more likely, tuned me out.
Ellen sometimes has a tendency to hear things as she’d prefer them to be.

“Look,” I pointed out, “it’s one o’clock already. I think we should call it a night. Or, I should say, a morning.”

“Ohhh, you’re right. I had no idea it was that late. Uh, Aunt Dez?”

“What?”

“I did only doze off for a few minutes. Honestly.”

It was a cold, rainy, thoroughly miserable morning. The kind that always makes me long to crawl back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep until I’m all slept out. (Which should take me to the early afternoon, at the very least.)

But I rarely play hooky. And even if I did, this was definitely not the day to do it.

Because today, on Vito da Silva’s orders, I was going to be attending Frank Vincent’s funeral.

 

Driving out to the station house was no picnic. At one point the rain was pelting the windshield with such ferocity that the wipers were next to useless. I could hardly see even a couple of feet in front of me. Hunched over the steering wheel, my neck thrust forward like a turtle’s, I quickly went from mild anxiety to a barely controllable urge to bite my nails up to the elbow. I finally concluded that the smart thing to do would be to pull over for a while. Which was the precise moment the torrent tapered off to a drizzle.

Able to focus a portion of my attention on something other than the road now, I began to ponder—for probably the hundred-and-first time—what Sheila Vincent’s motive could have been for having her husband killed.

Maybe, as Lou suggested, greed had played at least a part in the Vincent homicide. I wondered how lucrative the victim’s practice had been. And if there was a will. What about insurance? We would definitely have to look into the financial situation here.

It was not long after this that I started to have second thoughts about that revenge thing I’d suggested to Lou. I mean, while it was certainly feasible Sheila might have decided to pay back her spouse for all those beatings she’d endured, I couldn’t quite convince myself to buy into this.

Sure, if he’d blackened her eye and she’d turned around and crowned him with a coffee pot right then and there,
that
I could see. But to calmly arrange for his murder . . . Listen, the woman was clever enough to appreciate that in light of Frank’s political ambitions, there was an easier way to extract her pound of flesh. All she had to do was let it be known that she was divorcing the creep because he kept belting the bejesus out of her.
Unless,
of course, Sheila was afraid da Silva might retaliate in some way for her bad-mouthing his protégé. I guess that did make a revenge shooting more plausible—as long as it couldn’t be laid on her doorstep, that is.

I permitted myself to relax for close to five whole minutes now. After which I was off on another tack entirely.

Suppose—just suppose—that Sheila’s lover was a man she merely pretended to be interested in so that she could induce him to do her the small favor of removing her husband. Where would that leave me? I mean, here I’d been knocking myself out trying to determine who might be a suitable sweetie for this lady, and there was a chance she might just have settled for the most pliant guy she could find. Oh, God! That could be anyone from her neighbor’s gardener to some kid delivering pizza! (I did, however, still refuse to consider Marcus Goodman and his wart.)

Wait. I could not think like this. Not if I wanted to keep my suspect list—and my nerves—under control. Sheila was the kind of woman, I told myself, who would regard it as necessary that she be at least
somewhat
physically attracted to the man she was sharing her bed with.

With this theory more or less put to rest—for the present, at any rate—I segued into another one that was even more disturbing.

What if there’d been no lover at all? What if Sheila had
paid
someone to murder her husband? The thing is, though, where would she have found this someone? There’s no listing headed “Assassins for Hire” in the Yellow Pages. And even if she
was
able to connect with an individual like that, wouldn’t she have been fearful a transaction of this nature could get back to da Silva? There was also another, more personal reason I was reluctant to give this notion any credence. If the killer was a stranger to Sheila—a professional—how in the world would I ever be able to track him down?

I hastily reassured myself that it was doubtful Sheila would have utilized the services of a hit man. But I had my fingers crossed, nevertheless.

Suddenly reality struck. Sheila Vincent’s involvement in her husband’s death was far from a certainty. I mean, let’s face it. Lou had come up with another theory that was probably just as viable.

Still, my money was on the widow.

 

I arrived at my temporary office just as my temporary partner was leaving it.

“I stuck a note on your desk,” Lou explained, “in case I missed you when you came in.”

“What’s it about?”

He grinned. “Don’t be so lazy. Go and read it.”

I gave him the fish-eye, which for once proved to be effective.

“Okay,” he capitulated. “I spoke to Gene Rossi’s boss a little while ago. The man confirms Rossi’s alibi. Swerdlow—the boss—and his wife got to the Rossis at six-thirty Wednesday evening and stayed until after ten.”

“Figures,” I bitched into the collar of my navy shirt-waist—a favorite of mine. It really does look exceptionally nice on me—but not too nice for a funeral, if you know what I’m saying. This having been an important consideration when I was getting dressed that morning. Dumb, isn’t it? I mean, I’d be wearing a trench coat, so who would even see it?

“Hey,” Lou reminded me, “there’s always—what did the Stemple kid call her?—‘the ugly old divorced lady.’ I tried her phone number, by the way, and the answering machine informed me that she’d be out of town until Thursday.” And shifting his mouth over to one side, Lou rolled his eyes heavenward. “Brilliant, huh? The woman’s all but inviting someone to break in and rob her blind. At any rate, I left word for her to contact either you or me ASAP. But listen,” he announced, “if you’re still so gung-ho about attending Vincent’s funeral, we’ll have to be out of here in about a half hour.”