Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (24 page)

I broke off when I noted the smug smile on Lou’s face.

“What?” I demanded.

“It’s just that you’re making this whole thing so complicated. Chances are there were time sheets or one of those sign-in/sign-out books to tell him who was around until when.”

The fact that I hadn’t even considered this possibility did not particularly please me. “Anyhow,” I responded grumpily, “I also thought it was a nice touch that he waited until we were ready to call it a day and then acted as if he just remembered about Riley.”

“Hey, it’s very likely that Sklaar
did
just remember and that he actually
did
see her walking out of the building Wednesday night.”

I was in a really sour mood by now. And I’m not sure the time sheet oversight was the only cause of it, either. I think a big chunk of my distemper could be attributed to the confusion I was feeling on a personal level. At any rate, I snapped my retort. “I realize that. I did say something before about
if
he wasn’t telling the truth, you know.”

“Well, either way,” Lou summed up in an infuriatingly reasonable tone, “unless Roberta Riley saw him, too—and by his own admission, she didn’t—Morgan Sklaar’s alibi isn’t worth a damn.”

After we left Sklaar I was afraid Lou might suggest going out to eat. And I had visions of spending an hour or more trying to unobtrusively push food around my plate. But then he mentioned something about meeting Jake at some steakhouse—thank goodness.

When I got home that evening I fixed myself a single scrambled egg; somehow it didn’t seem as threatening as, say, a tuna fish sandwich. But at least half of it wound up in the garbage anyhow. I settled for a couple of slices of toast, washed down with two cups of coffee—coffee, no matter how atrocious, being the one thing I had no problem managing lately.

As soon as I finished I dialed Ellen.

She still hadn’t vacated her cloud. “I’m dying to tell my parents,” she prattled deliriously. “What do you think my mother will say when she sees this ring?” (Which didn’t require an answer.) “Mike’s been on pins and needles waiting for his folks to telephone. Ohhh, wasn’t he absolutely adorable last night?” (Which also didn’t call for an answer.) “You know, Aunt Dez, I still can’t believe how wonderful all the people in that restaurant were . . .”

When she eventually paused for breath, as I was almost certain she had to, I got in that I wanted her and Mike to come over for dinner. “When can you both make it?”

“Mike’s off Sunday night—or won’t that give you enough time to prepare?”

“Sunday should be fine—let’s say around eight, okay?”

“Great.” Now that she’d been temporarily forced to earth, she even thought to ask what kind of day I’d had.

“Not bad.”

This was enough to satisfy Ellen. Because right after an automatic “I’m so glad,” she was up and away again. “We’re wondering if we should look for an apartment or just live at Mike’s for a while after we’re married. Did I mention we’ll probably have the wedding this summer? I’ve been trying to decide if I want to wear white or off-white . . .”

I smiled. It was a joy to hear Ellen this happy. Nevertheless, I tuned her out now in order to plan Sunday’s dinner menu. Just as I was about to finalize it, though, I realized that at long last she was expecting a response from me.

“So, what do you think?” she wanted to know.

“Umm . . . well, I—”

“Never mind. I don’t feel dogs belong at a ceremony anyway.”

 

I sat down with Sheila Vincent’s book a short while later. Sklaar was right, I concluded, after reading a few pages: The woman did have talent. She painted wonderful word pictures, whether she was describing one of her dishes or relating an anecdote. I’d really have to try out a few of her recipes—if I was ever again up to sampling anything edible, that is. The ringing phone tore me away from Sheila’s Consommé Julienne.

It was Al.

Once we’d dispensed with the “How are you”s, I told him about Ellen’s engagement.

“That’s terrific! Absolutely terrific!” He sounded almost as pumped up as I was. The man was just so
nice.
Yet—and I was finally willing to admit this to myself—I was less than thrilled about his imminent return to New York.

For the second time in only a few hours I pondered the same question:
What was with me lately, anyhow?

 

The alarm clock went off so early on Saturday that I had to fight the urge to smash it into millions of pieces. I quickly remembered that before going to work, I had to shop for Sunday’s dinner. At any rate, I was soon marching determinedly up and down the supermarket aisles, where I found everything I was looking for in an unheard of (for me) half an hour. Then after dropping off the groceries at the apartment, I picked up my Chevy and headed for Riverton.

The minute I was out of my coat I was in Lou’s office. Just before leaving for home last night I’d suggested he give himself today off, since I planned on devoting all my time to transcribing my notes. “Unless,” I had added diplomatically, “you can think of something else we should be dealing with.”

“We should certainly talk to some more of da Silva’s buddies—and, of course, the big guy himself. But I can’t imagine how it would hurt if we held off until after the weekend, especially since we’ve waited this long. But let’s start moving on it Monday, huh?”

“Fine,” I had said.
Oh, shit!
I’d thought.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, anyway. What gives you the idea, Shapiro, that you’re the only one who has paperwork to catch up on?”

 

So here we both were on this cold, gray Saturday morning. Walking behind Lou’s chair now, I plunked the photograph I’d cut out of the
Memorable Mealtimes
book jacket on his desk. He glanced down at it and then up at me. “What is this?”

“Sheila Vincent. It’s a few years old, but it’s still a pretty good likeness, wouldn’t you agree?” The picture showed Sheila in one of those typical glamour poses authors seem to be so fond of. The widow’s head was tilted to one side, her chin cupped in her hand, her blonde hair brushing her face ever so slightly, a mysterious half smile on her face.

“I know
who
it is. What I’d like to know is what this is about.”

“It’s time we started going around to the local motels,” I explained, taking a seat. “Maybe we can find someone who recognizes Sheila and/or her possible love interest. Felicia will be FedExing the photos of our male contestants to me—by early next week, I hope.”

“Felicia?”

I tittered a little. “She’s an acquaintance of mine who works in the circulation department of
Business Today
— and as accomplished a liar as you’d ever want to meet.” (I couldn’t keep the admiration out of my voice when I made this announcement.) “I called Felicia yesterday to ask her to do what she does best. And she was only too happy to oblige. She loves a bit of intrigue. Besides, Felicia’s terribly bored at work—she’s really overqualified for her job. Anyway, as soon as we hung up, she got in touch with Andrew Shippman, pretending to be a writer for the magazine. She told him she was doing an article on successful entrepreneurs in this area, and she said that if he wanted to be included, they’d need a recent head shot of him right away—addressed to her attention, of course. After that she spoke to the senior partner at Whitfield’s law firm. Only this time her story was that she was writing a piece on young attorneys. And Monday morning she’ll be calling Larkspur Publishing and—But you get the idea. At any rate, they were all just delighted to honor the request for a picture.”

Lou was shaking his head. “Jee
zus!
You are something else. Okay. As soon as you complete your photograph album we’ll begin canvassing the motels. Not that I—”

“I know, I know. Not that you think I’m on the right track.”

“You got it.” A moment later something evidently occurred to him. “Say,” he remarked, suspicion in his tone, “all of a sudden you seem to be pretty revved up about this ‘other man’ angle again. Did I miss something?”

I couldn’t reveal that my conversation with my client was what had lit this fire under me, so I shaded the truth a little. “Don’t be silly. It’s only that I feel we should explore every possibility before abandoning that theory.”

Lou looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t like to throw cold water on your plans, Dez—and, anyhow, I imagine you’re already aware of this yourself—but I still figured I should mention it.”

“Go on,” I told him evenly, although my back had begun to stiffen.

“What I’m trying to say is that while we should probably take a stab at the motels just in case, I don’t think we can count on them having the answer for us. If Sheila Vincent had herself a lover, it’s more than likely they didn’t even utilize one of our local hot-sheet establishments. With Whitfield, for example, they could have gone to a friend’s house—maybe the friend he’s staying with now.”

“Unless,”
I argued, “he didn’t care to have his friend find out about Sheila.”

“Okay. But suppose it was Morgan Sklaar she was seeing. It would have been smarter to get together somewhere in New York. And if it was—”

“You’re right, I
did
realize all that stuff,” I interrupted, glaring at him. “But I don’t know for sure that they didn’t rendezvous around here—and neither do you. Listen, why don’t you try acting a little more positive, for a change?” I lectured, ignoring all those times he’d done exactly that in an attempt to counter my own negativism.

The reprimand apparently didn’t shake him up too much. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Just please don’t shoot me.” And grinning, he shielded his face with his forearm.

I’d accomplished more than I thought I would today. In fact, I was well into transcribing my notes on the conversation Lou and I had had with Morgan Sklaar. So I wasn’t feeling as guilty about playing hooky tomorrow as I might have otherwise. Besides, it would be my first free day since I’d begun working in Riverton.

I got home at a little after seven. And right after sharing most of my supper with the garbage can—which, being it was the tuna sandwich I’d rejected yesterday, wasn’t much of a supper anyway—I started on the do-ahead stuff for Sunday’s dinner.

I fixed the salad dressing and then prepared a couple of the hors d’oeuvres. I made such good time with these (probably because I didn’t stop for a taste every few minutes) that I even toyed with the thought of whipping up the dessert at that point. But I realized almost at once that I didn’t have the energy. (I don’t care what anyone tells you, there really
is
something to be said for scarfing down all those calories.) Instead, I wound up taking a leisurely bubble bath, and later I sat around and watched TV until just past midnight, when I went to bed.

Sleep, however, was impossible. Now that I was once again comfortable with my initial theory, I kept obsessing about the widow and her faceless lover. Of course, I still couldn’t dismiss Lou’s idea that one of my client’s people had done away with Vincent. Although since my talk with da Silva, it did seem less and less probable this would turn out to be the case.

All of a sudden I had this absolutely horrifying thought: Maybe Lou and I were both right. Suppose the man Sheila was playing house with was one of da Silva’s associates?

I swear I could practically hear Joe Maltese telling her that “the ball and chain” didn’t understand him. And in spite of how unnerved I was by this gangster/lover notion of mine, I actually began to giggle.

But when soon afterward I was back to engaging in some serious reflection, I found it impossible to imagine Sheila locked in a passionate embrace with a buffoon like Maltese—even if this was necessary to entice him to dispose of her husband. I mean, surely a woman as attractive as Sheila Vincent could manage to dig up an accomplice with a little more sex appeal and a lot more class than a Joe Maltese. Or anybody that was anything like him. I was all ready to dismiss this jarring new concept of mine when it dawned on me. What if there was an Al Pacino-type among da Silva’s cronies—or, heaven forbid, two of them?

It was then, as I recall, that I buried my head under the pillow.
Don’t sweat it,
I urged as I struggled for breath.
You’ve already figured out the widow’s most likely paramours.

But while I desperately wanted to believe this, I wasn’t altogether convinced.

 

I was awakened at just past eleven a.m. on Sunday by either a woman with a deep, throaty voice or a man with an unusually high-pitched one phoning to ask me to subscribe to the
Daily News
and addressing me in this very cozy tone as Des
eer
ay. Still, I was beholden to Toni—Tony?—(which, at the onset of our very abbreviated conversation, I’d been informed was her/his name). The thing is, while I’d set the alarm for nine-thirty, I’d managed to sleep right through it—a pretty unusual occurrence for me, but understandable in this instance since I’d thrashed around on the bed for most of the night. And who knows how long I would have been out if it weren’t for this caller. I was feeling almost grateful enough to subscribe to the newspaper. Almost.

I jumped up, hastily threw on some clothes, and after drinking two cups of coffee and forcing a slice of toast on myself, I tackled my apartment. I did lots of good, fun stuff: vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing, polishing . . . (Well, I couldn’t have Mike thinking that Ellen, blood relation or not, came from a family with a sloppy aunt in it, could I?)

Once the grunge work was out of the way I turned my attention to tonight’s meal. That meant running over to the greengrocers’ to pick out some nice vegetables for the salad, along with a bouquet of wildflowers for the table.

As soon as I got back upstairs I put the champagne on ice to ensure that I wouldn’t forget about it. My fingers were crossed that the bottle of Piper Heidsick, which for the past three years had been on red alert waiting for a special occasion, preferably this one, hadn’t gone bad on me. This being a definite possibility, considering that my “wine cellar” was a sixteen-dollar wine rack from Macy’s that stood right next to an end table in the living room.