Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (32 page)

Anyway—surprise!—they brought Chinese food. Lots of Chinese food. “Enough so you’ll be able to have it a few times,” Ellen chirped.

I thanked them enthusiastically. I even managed a happy smile. And, as a matter of fact, I actually wound up enjoying the meal, although I had pretty much the same dishes I’d had yesterday. And would very likely end up having for at least a week.

After dinner, at Mike’s request, I went over the hit-and-run incident. “Do you think whoever it was will try again?” he asked solemnly.

“I hope not.”

“How strong are your locks?”

“Well, I have one really good one. At least it’s supposed to be.”

“
Supposed
to be?” Ellen challenged shrilly. Then a moment later, her jaw jutting out to
there:
“I’m going to sleep over tonight.”

“No, you’re not,” I told her. “I’ll be perfectly fine. Besides, just how much help do you think you’d be if somebody
did
show up here?”

“At least I can get around,” she retorted.

Now, I hadn’t wanted to do this. I mean, I know my niece. But I figured it was either show-and-tell or she’d wind up on my sofa tonight. And who knows how many nights after that? So I picked up my crutches from the floor and invited Ellen to follow me into the bedroom.

Her eyes and mouth flew open at the same time when I removed the shiny black object from the night table and held it out to her. “It’s . . . it’s a g-gun!” she exclaimed, recoiling from my outstretched hand.

“Don’t worry, Ellen, I don’t expect to use it. I only wanted to convince you that I have all the protection I need. So go home and keep Mike’s feet warm.”

 

After Ellen and Mike left, I took a few awkward laps around the apartment in an attempt to get more used to the crutches. Satisfied that I was beginning to handle them a little better (of course, anything would have been an improvement), I started to get ready for bed. Now that I finally had some time to myself, though, I remembered about the
Post.
So I went back into the living room and settled on the sofa to have a look at the paper.

I found the article on page seven. It must have been a very slow news day, because it was a really good-sized story.

PI IS VICTIM OF SUSPICIOUS HIT-AND-RUN, the headline blared. There was an embarrassingly lousy photo of me, which it seemed to me had appeared on these same pages during one of my previous misadventures. The first line of the caption said, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR DESIREE SHAPIRO. And underneath this: “Alleges ‘accident’ was no accident.”

Below and to the left of my picture was a slightly larger photograph of two men. I recognized one of them immediately. He was shaking hands with a short, stocky fellow who was unfamiliar to me. I checked the caption: MET WITH FOUL PLAY.

My eyes wandered over to Frank Vincent’s photo again. That s.o.b. was really a very attractive man, I grudgingly conceded before closing the newspaper. And promptly opening it to page seven again.

There was something about that photograph . . . something that had almost succeeded in arousing my sluggish memory. But damned if I could put my finger on what it was.

I don’t know how long I stared at the victim’s good-looking face. It might have been two minutes or ten or even twenty. But suddenly the fog dissipated, and I had the frightening, the
unbelievable
answer.

That picture!

My God! That picture!

I was so unnerved I couldn’t even close my eyes that night.

This . . . this . . .
revelation
of mine was too incredible to even consider. Yet I was certain my memory wasn’t deceiving me. Or was it?

It had to be sometime after four a.m. when I finally dropped off. And then—wouldn’t you know it?—I was awakened by the telephone. My digital clock informed me that it was six-thirty-one.

“Are you all right, Desiree?”

It took a moment for the voice to register on my sleep-logged brain. “Mr. da Silva?”

“Yes. Forgive my calling you at this hour, but I have been away on a family holiday. I only learned of what happened late last night, and I was worried about you.”

It was unexpected, this expression of concern from da Silva. And as to his actually apologizing to me—now
that
really threw me. “Oh, uh, I’ll be okay,” I responded awkwardly.

Da Silva made some polite inquiries about my health and prognosis, following which he posed the question that was, I believed, the principal purpose of his call. “Who did this to you? Do you know?”

I answered cautiously. “I’m not sure. There are a couple of things I want to follow up on.”

“Good. I was concerned that you might be considering resigning from the case.”

“Oh, no. I’ll probably spend a day or two at home—but I’ll still be working, going over my notes. And then I’ll be back in Riverton tomorrow or Wednesday.”

“How do you intend getting there?”

“I’ll hire a car service.”

“No. I will arrange for a chauffeur for you. Every day, for as long as is necessary, he will drive you to the police station—and wherever else you want to go. Then he will bring you home in the evening.”

It certainly pays to have friends in high or—depending on how you look at it—low places, doesn’t it? “Thank you. That would be a tremendous help. Uh, Mr. da Silva? There’s something I really should check into immediately. Do you think it would be possible for him to start today?”

“Of course. When do you want him?”

“How about this morning? At ten o’clock?”

“Done.”

 

When I came downstairs at nine-fifty-five, Fullmer—he only used the one name—was double-parked in front of my door. Dressed in proper chauffeur attire, he was leaning with his back against the hood of the long, black limousine, smoking. As soon as he spotted me, he stomped out the cigarette and hurried over to assist me.

He was an extremely large man. Six-three or -four and probably not far from three hundred pounds—most of it appearing to be muscle. I suspected that chauffeuring was only one of Fullmer’s duties. Nevertheless, he was very gentle as he helped me into the back of the limo, which not only had a well-stocked bar and a miniature TV, but much more important, enough room to stretch out a leg enclosed in a cast.

It took close to an hour-and-a-half to reach the Breeze Inn. And during that time I kept telling myself again and again that this was probably the dumbest, most bizarre idea I’d ever had.

 

Herman Conway, the manager of the motel, ran his bony fingers through his sparse brown hair as he examined the photograph. It was one I hadn’t shown him before. Then, placing the picture on the counter, he favored me with a yellow-toothed smile. “Now
him
I recognize.”

“You’re positive?” I demanded once I reminded myself to exhale.

“Absolutely. He was here quite a few times. The way it was, see, this one afternoon when he come in, I was pretty sure he’d been in previous to that, but I couldn’ta sworn to it. I don’t usually pay these people much attention. Know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“On that particular day, though, I happened to look out the window after the guy left the office, and I seen the woman he was with. Class. Real class. Know what I mean?”

“I know just what you mean,” I told him caustically, digging my nails into my palms as the widow’s smug little smile flashed through my mind.

“The thing is, the guy wasn’t much, see?” Conway continued. “He sure isn’t no Sean Connery or nothin’. But still, he gets to play footsie with someone like her. I was thinkin’ that you gotta be lucky in this life, right?”

“Right.”

“Then I say to myself, ‘Hey, what do
you
know? Maybe the dude’s loaded.’ And this reminds me that he was wearin’ a very handsome pinkie ring, which I noticed when he signed the register that afternoon. And all of a sudden it comes to me that I seen that ring before. Like I said, I kind of vaguely remembered him anyway, but the ring—that clinched it.”

“You must really be into rings.”

“Not me.
Her
—my girlfriend. And this one had one of them blue stones—”

“A sapphire.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was about to say. A sapphire. Which is my girlfriend’s birthstone—in September, she was born. Anyhow, she’s been after me to give her an engagement ring for Christmas. But soon’s I laid eyes on that ring—the first time I ever seen it, I’m speaking about—it occurred to me that maybe if I got her somethin’ like that, it would shut her up for a while. Know what I mean?” He flashed his yellow-toothed smile. “Hey, I can hope.

“But anyway, after gettin’ a look at the guy’s lady friend that day, the next time he come in I paid a little more attention to the lucky stiff.”

“And the woman? Did you see her again?”

“Sure did. He was back a week later, maybe less—that was around the beginning of November, I think. And, well, to be honest, I was curious if he was with the same one again. So the minute he left the office, I ran over to the window—and there she was. I watched him helpin’ her out of the car, but her head was bent. And then they started walkin’ the other way. Mostly what I was gettin’ was a rear view. Know what I mean? But I could tell it was her on account of the hair. Blonde, and, you know, pulled back and sorta wound all around.” He drew concentric circles in the air.

“You’re saying she had a chignon?”

“A what?”

“A bun.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

I played the devil’s advocate. “But plenty of women wear their hair like that.”

“Listen, she was the same height. And she had the same way of movin’—she like glided. Know what I mean? Also, I recognized the coat. Bright red, with this little black fur collar.”

“Did you see either of them after that time?”

“Uh-uh. But they might of come in at night or on a weekend. I’m off then.”

I reached into my attaché case. Fortunately the case and its contents had escaped the wheels of Friday morning’s killer car. Taking out the same picture that the manager had failed to identify previously, I handed it to him now. “Is this the woman?”

Conway studied the photo carefully, then held it up in front of him, squinting. “Hair’s different. I’m tryin’ to pitcher how she’d look if she had it in that bun style. But, yeah, I think this could be her. It definitely could be. You don’t have no other pitchers?”

“I’ll get one,” I said.

I had just thanked him and was about to go when Conway—only half in jest, I believe—leaned across the counter. “Hey, what’d those two do, anyhow? They serial killers or somethin’?”

“That’s right. Or somethin’.”

I’ve never been able to explain it.

It wasn’t as if I
decided
to handle it that way.

After all, he’d become a desperate man. And God knows—and so does everyone else—how brave I’m not. Besides, I was hardly at my best physically. (And even when I am, it’s nothing to brag about.) I mean, I was well aware that I’d have to be either incredibly stupid or completely around the bend to summon him.

Sitting there on the edge of the bed, though, with the telephone within easy reach, I realized with a shudder that I was going to do it regardless.

I just couldn’t seem to restrain myself.

 

“I know,” I informed him, the receiver wet in my hand.

“Know what?”

“About you and Sheila Vincent.”

“I don’t understand what you’re—”

“Yes, you do.”

There was a long pause, and then he said, “I think it might be a good idea if I came over.”

“Yes,” I told him. “That’s what I had in mind.”

Less than an hour later the buzzer sounded. I was unnaturally calm when I opened the door. Numb, I suppose. There was a puzzled expression on his face. “Come in,” I tossed out over my shoulder as I turned and made my way to the sofa.

I lowered myself onto the cushions with some difficulty, while this man who had been my partner and friend—and, as far as I was concerned, at least, so much more—took a seat on the club chair facing me. For a couple of seconds we appraised each other in silence. Then Lou smiled tentatively. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”

“Do you?”

“Am I supposed to have any idea what that cryptic phone call of yours meant?”