Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (21 page)

“Ditto,” Lou announced when I informed him of my intention to cut out early. “You know what my regular shift is, Dez? In the event that you don’t, it’s eight to four. Although ever since I got involved in a high-profile murder investigation with some pushy little redhead, I’ve been putting in a few extra hours.” The
few
was emphasized just enough so I’d recognize the irony of the word. Then pulling up alongside my car to let me out, he cracked, “Now, don’t go feeling guilty later about only working the same kind of hours most of the rest of America does. Promise me, huh?”

I dropped my Chevy at the garage and made straight for D’Agostino’s. My refrigerator had been crying out for reinforcements for almost a week now, the tomatoes having become squishy-soft, the Swiss cheese moldy, and the lettuce slimy and tinged with brown. And then yesterday the milk turned sour.

This really wouldn’t do.

When I was through schlepping up and down the aisles, my shopping cart was filled to overflowing with edibles, along with a couple of other things it makes sense to keep around the house. You know, like soap and toilet paper. Then after being assured that my purchases would be delivered within the hour, I headed for my apartment.

I had already planned what to have for supper. The other evening I’d unearthed a package of macaroni and cheese, which had somehow found its way to the back of the freezer where it had hidden—most likely for at least a month—under a bag of French fries. I took it out now. I didn’t really feel much like eating, which was surprising. (In my case that sort of thing happens less frequently than a solar eclipse.) But macaroni and cheese being one of my many weaknesses food-wise, I was certain that as soon as the dish was sitting in front of me, fragrant and piping hot, I’d be unable to resist it.

I was wrong.

I had three or four forkfuls, then pushed the plate away.

I couldn’t remember the last time my appetite had let me down like this. Maybe it was the stress of the investigation. Or it could be I was plain exhausted; yes, that must be it. Anyhow, it was no big deal. I’d just have a cup of coffee—as soon as D’Agostino’s came through with the milk, that is.

 

Fifteen minutes after my groceries arrived I was sitting at the table, reading the
New York Times
and drinking my horrendous brew. What a shame that my culinary talents—which, setting aside false modesty, I’m pleased to say are considerable—don’t extend to coffee making. Anyway, I’d only had two or three sips when the phone rang.

“Dez! I was sure you wouldn’t be in yet, but I figured I had nothing to lose by trying. How are you? And how’s everything going?”

“Fine. And fine. How’s L.A.?”

“To use what seems to be the operative word, L.A.’s fine, too,” Al answered, chuckling. “Apart from the fact that I miss you, of course.”

I gulped. “I miss you, too.”
Well, I would, I knew, if I’d even had time to think about anything like that lately.
“When do you expect to be back?”

“On Sunday. Listen, I’m really sorry I couldn’t give you a call yesterday, but my brother and sister-in-law dragged me off to an engagement party, and we didn’t get home until after three a.m.”

“Oh, I understand.”
What else could I tell him—that until this very moment I wasn’t even aware that I hadn’t heard from him last night?
“How’s your family?” I inquired hurriedly.

“Everyone’s great. My nephew Brian is four now. It’s been a year since I last saw him, and the difference is amazing. He’s become a real person. But I don’t want to brag, so enough about my handsome, lovable, and absolutely brilliant nephew. Tell me how the investigation’s coming. Making any progress?”

“None. I’ve been busy questioning everyone and their Aunt Fanny, but so far I haven’t seen any results. We’re exploring an entirely new theory now, though—Lou’s idea. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned him, but Lou’s this lieutenant the police assigned to work with me on the case. Anyhow, I’ll explain it all to you in person.”

“All right. But just be careful, Dez. And by the way, I can’t wait to see you.”

“I can’t wait to see you, either.”

 

I was still sipping that same cup of coffee when the phone rang again. I picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello,” I said again.

Someone clicked off in my ear.

Obviously, it was a wrong number, but I hate it—don’t you?—when people don’t have the courtesy to say they’re sorry when they make a mistake like that. I mean, it wouldn’t take more than an extra second or two, for God’s sake, to show a little class. I had to remind myself to unclench my teeth before I could resume my coffee-sipping.

Now, no dire thoughts occurred to me immediately, but after a while, when I put aside the newspaper, my pesky, freewheeling imagination kicked in.
Suppose,
the damn thing demanded,
it wasn’t a wrong number at all. Maybe that call was from someone interested in learning if you were home tonight.

I decided that the idea wasn’t totally far-fetched. Only this afternoon Lou and I had interrogated a known mobster. And it
was
plausible that he might have been disturbed enough about coming under suspicion to be keeping tabs on me.

Looking back, I feel that a lack of nourishment contributed at least in part to this weakening of my brain. But anyhow, propelled by my newly emerged paranoia, I made it to the front door at a speed worthy of citing in the
Guinness Book of World Records.
It was a tremendous relief to verify that all three of the locks were locked.

After a pit stop at the coffee maker, I sat down at the kitchen table again. It was really unseemly—no,
ridiculous
—for someone in my line of work to have such a yellow liver. It wasn’t like me to get this spooked, either. (Which is not to imply that you should expect to read in the newspapers about my getting an award for bravery any time soon.)
Perhaps,
I speculated ominously,
it was a premonition.
I shook my head in irritation. Forget Maltese. At this rate I could end up scaring myself to death.

Forcing myself to think about something else, I settled on Lou. This afternoon he’d said something in jest about my feeling guilty. Well, I did feel guilty. Only not about quitting work at a reasonable time for once, but about how I’d been running
him
ragged, too. It wasn’t fair. After all,
he
wasn’t getting any nice, fat check to hunt for Frank Vincent’s killer. But what choice did I have? I—

The downstairs buzzer sounded, and I jumped about two feet, sloshing coffee all over the table.

I spoke into the intercom in a quivery voice. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Whew!
This initial reaction, however, was quickly followed by concern. I didn’t remember Ellen’s ever having dropped in out of the blue like this before . . .

“Can Mike and I come up for a few minutes?”

. . . and I
knew
she and Mike never did.

I bit my lip. What was this about, anyway?

Ellen pushed past me into the room, her face flushed, her eyes a little wild looking. I stepped aside so Mike could follow her in, then immediately closed and relocked the door.

“What’s going on?” I asked nervously.

Ellen stuck out her hand—the left one. I stared at it. There, adorning the third finger, was a dazzling pear-shaped diamond. It must have been at least a carat. (I later learned it was slightly over two.)

“Ellen!” I squealed.

“Aunt Dez!” she squealed back.

“Shhh,” Mike cautioned. “Your neighbors’ll think somebody’s being attacked here.”

But Ellen and I were now too busy hugging and kissing to pay any attention to him.

When we finally released each other, it was Mike’s turn to be the recipient of my enthusiasm. Grabbing onto his neck—and since he’s well over six feet, I had to stand on my toes to accomplish even this much—I pulled down his face and kissed him fervently about half a dozen times. “I’m just so happy, so happy for you both,” I got in between smooches.

I’m not sure if I eventually loosened my hold on him or if Mike managed to wriggle out of my clutches, but once we were apart I started to weep from the sheer joy (and maybe relief) of the occasion.

Ellen led me over to the sofa, and I sat there, hands covering my face, giving free rein to my feelings. Mumbling something about bringing me a few tissues, Ellen raced to the bathroom and returned with the entire Kleenex box, which she shoved into my hand. Then she plopped down next to me—practically landing in my lap—and draped herself across my shoulders, murmuring some soothing “Aunt Dezes” every so often, while Mike hovered awkwardly nearby.

I cried for a good couple of minutes. Look, I was entitled to vent. After all, who was it who, on meeting Young Doctor Mike close to three years ago as a result of his bringing me out of a dead faint in the hallway of his apartment building, had surreptitiously checked his ring finger?—and while he was practically still in the act of ministering to me, too. And who was it who subsequently proceeded to inveigle Mike and Ellen into taking a chance on a blind date? And didn’t I also have to endure that angst-producing breakup of theirs? And once they got back together again, hadn’t I been holding my breath just waiting and praying for this moment?

At any rate, as soon as I’d regained control of myself, I pounced. “Now tell me,” I ordered.

Ellen was only too pleased to oblige. “We were having dinner tonight at that pretty little Italian place in Chelsea we like so much. We took you there one evening, remember? It’s got this—”

“Never mind about the restaurant,” I said impatiently.

“Okay. We had just finished dessert, and we were on our second cup of coffee when Mike took my hand and began playing with my fingers. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but all of a sudden I realized what was happening: He was trying to slip the ring on! I got so flustered I pulled my hand back—I thought I could help.”

“Believe me, this was not one of your niece’s better thoughts,” Mike interjected dryly.

“It’s true,” a beaming Ellen concurred. “Anyhow, we—I—dropped the ring, and naturally the two of us went down on all fours to look for it. And when the other customers sitting near us wanted to know what was going on, I told them—naturally—and a few of them started crawling around on the floor, too. And then the waiter came over, and
he
joined in the search. Wasn’t that nice of everybody? New Yorkers are—”

“El—len,” I warned, glowering at her.

“Well,” she resumed hastily, “this man two tables away was the one who found the ring.” And after a beat or two for effect: “In my saucer.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, laughing.

“We never even considered the possibility it might have landed on the table,” Mike admitted sheepishly. “But, listen, this romantic little story doesn’t end there.”

“What next?”

“When I tried for a second time to get the ring on her finger, Ellen pushed my hand away.”

“She—what?”

“I couldn’t help it,” Ellen told me, reddening. “I had to run to the ladies’ room so I could throw up.”

Mike raised his eyebrows and grinned at me. I interpreted it as a “She’s
your
niece” kind of grin.

“It was all the excitement of first getting the ring and then losing it and everything,” Ellen said. “You can understand that, can’t you, Aunt Dez? I bet you would have had the same reaction.”

She was probably right.

“Anyway, I called you before we left the restaurant to make sure you were home”—Ellen flashed the ring under my nose now—“because we decided you should be the first to know.”

“You called me?”

“Uh-huh. But we wanted to give you our news in person, so I hung up when I heard your voice.”

Ohh. So it was Ellen!
Mentally kicking myself, I packed my paranoia in mothballs—at least for the present.

“After all,” she was saying, “if you hadn’t fixed us up in the first place, there wouldn’t
be
any engagement.”

“I’m not so sure,” I protested modestly. “It’s very likely the two of you would have met another way. Don’t you believe in fate?”

“I guess I do. But still . . .”

Yes,
but still . . .
I mean, in spite of the stock I myself put in fate, I have to confess that being able to contribute to Ellen’s happiness was, nevertheless, a tremendous high for me.

“As long as we’ll be spending Thanksgiving in Florida with Ellen’s folks,” Mike informed me, “we’re going to hold off telling them anything until we get down there next week.”

“I can’t wait to see their faces,” Ellen murmured, looking blissful.

“What about your parents?” I asked Mike.

“We can’t let
them
know until they phone me. They’re in Europe now—somewhere in Scandinavia—and I have no idea how to reach them.”