Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (4 page)

But to get back to that evening . . .

Al looked exceptionally attractive. His dark brown suit was, I thought, very smartly accessorized with a cream shirt and a snappy red, cream, turquoise, and brown polka dot tie. It was obvious that he’d just had himself shorn, too; his thick, straight brown hair was shorter than I’d ever seen it—becomingly so. He smelled faintly of Christian Dior’s Eau Savage—my favorite.

Damned if the man didn’t seem to be growing on me!

Once we were settled in the waiting cab, I tried again to induce him to reveal our destination. No luck. But it didn’t matter. At least this was one mystery that would soon be solved. And painlessly, too.

 

Now, I won’t tell you the name of the place, since these days everyone goes around suing everyone else for just about anything. And I don’t have a great desire to be a participant in a lawsuit, thank you very much. I’ll give you a few hints, though. Virtually every restaurant critic lists it among the top dining establishments in New York City. I’ve even seen it rated as
the
top in more than one source book. Plus, it’s located in a hotel. Which probably isn’t much of a clue, since so many of them are. Also, the cuisine is considered truly innovative. Although I guess that’s not a big help, either, because they write that about all the pricey restaurants. And this one is pricey, all right.

At any rate, Al and I were immediately impressed with the room itself—elegant, yet comfortable—and we settled into the plush chairs with a great deal of anticipation.

The service, we saw at once, was prompt and courteous (except that on setting down the first course, the waiter felt compelled, for some reason, to instruct me about the order in which to use the forks).

As for the actual meal, it turned out to be truly exceptional. I mean, it was one of the worst dinners I’ve ever had.

Let me give you an idea.

Al ordered a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and made a toast in honor of this somewhat questionable occasion. “It’s been a wonderful three months,” he said, a little catch in his voice. “And I thank the woman responsible.”

Naturally, being ninety-nine percent marshmallow, I started to sniffle. And when I composed myself, all I was able to come up with was a totally lame and uninspired, “I want to thank the man responsible, too.”

At any rate, I must say that the wine was very good—until the aftertaste kicked in. It hit the two of us at the same time, and we made what I imagined must be matching—and extremely unattractive—faces.

Not particularly anxious to linger over our libations under the circumstances, we soon selected our dishes.

We both opted for some sort of mixed seafood appetizer. When the food arrived at the table, it was so creatively presented that our expectations were in high gear again. One mouthful, however, and we were desperate enough to wash it down with that lousy wine.

For an entree, Al had decided on another seafood concoction. As I recall, it had shrimp and scallops and maybe lobster. And improbably enough, it somehow managed to outdo the appetizer. Now, in the event you’ve gotten the impression that the kitchen here just might not have a knack with seafood, I had a veal chop. And while I concede that the meat was juicy, it was infused with this thick, cloying sauce that made me long to run it under a water faucet.

But
exactly
how bad could that dinner have been?

I know you’ll find it tough to swallow (sorry, I was too weak to resist the pun), but by the time the remains of that horrendous veal chop were carried off, my palate had been so ruthlessly assaulted that I had absolutely no desire for dessert. Al, however, proved to be made of hardier stuff. The finale to his meal was something with coconut ice cream and fruit in a tough, oily pastry shell.
Yecch!

I should clarify something, though. The evening was far from a disaster. If you could discount the food—which, of course, took a bit of doing—it actually turned out to be very pleasant. The reason being that, as usual, Al and I thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

In between gripes about what was on our plates and then about what had just
been
on our plates, we talked about all kinds of things: Al’s upcoming Vegas-L.A. trip, the awful book I’d just finished, the terrific one Al was presently reading—and Thanksgiving, with Al inviting me to spend the holiday at his sister’s with him.

I was touched, but I wasn’t ready for anything like that. Not yet. Thanking him warmly, I explained that I’d already made plans to have dinner at Ellen’s.

A lie. And I could only hope it hadn’t resulted in one of those miserable, telltale blushes of mine. The fact was, Ellen and Mike—who’d been her almost-fiancé for much too long by then—were flying down to Florida for an extended weekend with her parents, my late husband Ed’s sister and brother-in-law.

Al was disappointed that I couldn’t come, but he assured me that if anything changed, it would even be okay to let him know on Thanksgiving morning.

Now, we were having our coffee at this juncture. And I had definitely made up my mind not to say a single word regarding my new case. Not after all the grief I’d gotten from Jackie and Ellen about taking it on. But then, with only about three sips left in my cup—wouldn’t you know it?—I wound up telling him anyway.

Al listened quietly as I related the details, including da Silva’s refusal to take no for an answer. When I was through, his forehead pleated up. “I really wish you’d been able to get out of this.”

“I won’t be in any danger,” I retorted—a little testily, I’m afraid. I figured I was in for another session like the ones I’d endured earlier.

“Actually, I don’t think you will be, either. Not any more than with any of the other murder cases you’ve been involved in. The only difference is that here you’ve also got a
client
who’s reputed to be a murderer. And I’d be happier if you could have avoided working for a man like that. Still, even if all the things they say about da Silva are true, I can’t see where you have anything to fear from him.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “If I were you, though, I’d take a small precaution if he ever wants to meet over lunch.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d see to it the table isn’t near any windows.”

He grinned. And I laughed out loud. For the first time since accepting the assignment from da Silva, I was actually feeling relaxed about it.

A couple of minutes after that, Al asked for the check. Following which he excused himself and went to the men’s room. The check arrived at the table before Al did. And being both nosy and weak willed, I peeked. It was astronomical!

Later, in the taxi, Al insisted that he didn’t regret tonight’s experience a bit. The place had been so highly touted that he’d always wanted to try it, and, of course, at last he had. Plus, rather than celebrate a special occasion (like our three-months-of-seeing-each-other anniversary???) at a restaurant that was just so-so, he much preferred someplace truly terrible—didn’t I? “After all, how likely are you to forget tonight’s dinner?” he reasoned.

I suppose this made sense. In a weird sort of way. Anyhow, I don’t know about you, but I have to admire a man who can think like that.

 

Al stayed over at my place.

Now, while my heart didn’t skip any beats and my toes didn’t curl and no fireworks went off in my head when we would spend the night together, it was always good—I mean,
really
good.

Right before drifting off to sleep that Friday, I remember thinking that things between us were just so companionable, so uncomplicated.

Sadly, it would never be like that again.

I fixed a quick breakfast for us the next morning—juice, dry cereal, and corn muffins. Al insisted on putting up the coffee himself, as is very often the case with someone who’s been previously exposed to my coffee-making skills.

He left the apartment at a little before eight, promising he’d call me the next day. I hurried out of there just minutes later. And then, after picking up my car at the garage near my building, I headed for Riverton, New Jersey.

All I knew about this place where I was about to spend some of the most nerve-wracking and upsetting days of my life was that it was a densely populated town in the north-eastern part of the state, about thirty miles beyond Fort Lee.

At any rate, at some point during the drive out there I realized to my great surprise that I was actually looking forward to starting the investigation. I wanted to find out who killed Frankie Vincent. Look, that was my job. That’s what I
did
. Plus, I no longer regarded da Silva as some kind of bogey man. Sure, he came on pretty strong. But after all, that was
his
job. That’s what
he
did. (In the interests of my mental health I decided not to think about what else he did.)

I considered again the dire consequences Jackie had envisioned for me in the event I discovered that the perpetrator was someone close to my client, someone he refused to believe it
could
be. Would da Silva really have me silenced to prevent the information from coming out? Uh-uh. Now that I was looking at everything more calmly, I realized there’d be no need for me to make a reservation at Heavenly Rest. If presented with proof, da Silva’s commitment to bringing Vincent’s killer to justice would overcome any partisanship he might have. I felt certain of this.

As for my failing to solve the murder—well, if this should happen I didn’t expect that da Silva would be chirping my praises, but I couldn’t see him using me for target practice, either. Besides, I had every intention of getting to the bottom of this. “You just wait and see.” I said it out loud in order to sound more convincing to myself.

I made the trip to Riverton in very good time. Less than an hour after picking up my Chevy at the garage near my Upper East Side apartment, I was at the police station.

The parking lot that adjoined the small, red brick building presently contained only about a dozen cars and had ample room for more. Nevertheless, I thought it likely that there were assigned spaces, so I drove around the corner and pulled up in front of a dingy white house with a “For Rent” sign on its overgrown lawn.

As I walked back to the station I prepped myself for the reception I was sure must be awaiting me. The word of my imminent arrival was no doubt already out, and the police here could hardly be thrilled at the prospect of having a PI on their backs. Particularly since it was obviously the result of some big shot’s not trusting them to conduct a competent investigation. I’ll bet they were speculating like crazy about
which
big shot I could be working for, too.

Pulling open the heavy wood door, I entered a large rectangular room. Two uniformed men were seated at badly scratched metal desks, both with telephone receivers plastered against their ears. And a woman in uniform stood at the water cooler. The four other people in evidence were casually dressed, and I guessed that at least a couple of them must be civilian employees. One of the latter—a pale blonde in her early twenties decked out in a blinding neon-green pants outfit—was sitting at the desk slightly to the right of me. She smiled politely. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like to see Chief Hicks, please. My name’s Desiree Shapiro, and I believe he’s expecting me. It’s about the Vincent case.”

“Oh,” she responded, flustered. “You’re the—What I mean is, I’ll let the chief know you’re here.” Flushing, Neon-Green picked up the phone. Cupping her hand around the mouthpiece, she mumbled something unintelligible, then promptly hung up. “Follow me, Ms. Shapiro,” she instructed. And leaving her chair, the girl unfurled herself to reveal about six feet of young, energetic female.

We headed for the back of the room, with me having to take two regular-sized steps to every one of her ridiculously long strides in order to keep up. I was puffing away by the time she came to a stop at the far wall, before a glass door directly opposite the entrance to the building. Inside the office was a thin, bald man in a dark blue uniform. He gestured for us to enter. Opening the door and poking her top half into the room, the girl announced, “Ms. Shapiro, Chief.” After which she loped back to her post.

“Come in, Miss Shapiro.” The welcoming smile he was trying for didn’t quite come off. “I’m Chief Hicks.” He half-rose and leaned across his desk to take the hand I extended, dropping it almost instantly.

I got in an “It’s nice to meet you,” before he indicated a chair alongside the desk.

“I understand you’ll be investigating Frank Vincent’s death,” he said as I sat down. “I’ve assigned Lieutenant Lou Hoffman to work with you. He’s been on the force here for better ’n twenty years, and he knows this town inside out. Lou’s a good man and an excellent detective, and he’ll help you in every way he can. Come on, I’ll introduce you to him. He can fill you in on what we’ve got so far.” Hicks stood up.

“Uh, just one thing, Chief.”

Obligingly, he resumed his seat, but two deep, parallel lines had materialized over his nose. “Yes, Miss Shapiro?”

“Listen, I know how awkward this is for everyone on the force. Believe me, it’s every bit as awkward for me. Anyway, first I’d like to make it clear that my own personal opinion of the police is that by and large they do a terrific job.”

Uh-oh.
Did that sound as patronizing as I thought it had? Hicks’s face gave me my answer.

“Umm, what I want to explain is that I was hired to look into Frank Vincent’s death, and that’s what I intend to do. But while I’m aware that the mere fact of my presence here is bound to raise some hackles, I assure you that I’ll try my damnedest not to make the situation any worse.”

“Good enough,” Hicks responded dryly, rising again.

He led me to an office that was at right angles to his own. The door was open, but we stopped on the threshold. A man was seated at the desk, swiveled around in his chair, his back to us. He was on the telephone. “Yeah, that’s right. A PI.” A small chuckle. “You got that right. Hey, if I’m lucky, maybe he’ll even show me the ropes.” A laugh, but one with little mirth.