Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (7 page)

“It would be understandable, considering the circumstances.”

“How many times do I have to say this? There’s nobody else.” Her tone remained even—although it was undoubtedly a struggle to keep it that way.

“If there
is
another man,” I persisted, “that’s still no indication you had anything to do with your husband’s death.”

“There is-n’t an-y oth-er man,” she pronounced, slowly enunciating every syllable.

I had to admire the woman’s control. “Okay, sorry. I believe you, but I had to check. I hope you can appreciate that.” And consummate actress that I am, I produced what I’m certain was a most engaging little smile.

Sheila’s lips curved upward in response, but you could tell that her heart wasn’t in it.

“I think we should let Mrs. Vincent get back to her friends,” Lou said then, the suggestion very possibly having been prompted by the tenor of this last round of questioning. And now he addressed Sheila. “There might be one or two things we’ll want to go over with you in a couple of days.” He was sounding apologetic again.

“Certainly,” she agreed, getting to her feet. “Just give me a call.”

“In the meantime, I wonder if you would tell Ms. Vincent we’d like to see her for a few minutes.”

“I’ll ask her to come right in.”

The moment Sheila Vincent closed the door behind her, Lou glared at me. “About as delicate as a buzz saw, weren’t you?” he said in a tight voice. “Listen, if she
is
having an affair, you didn’t really think you could badger her into confiding in you, did you?”

“I pressed too hard, huh?”

“What do
you
think?”

“I pressed too hard,” I admitted meekly. “I guess I got carried away.”

“From where I sat, Mrs. Vincent was being honest with us. She certainly didn’t pull any punches as far as her feelings for her husband.”

“You’re right, only—Look, Lou, I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I get these intuitions about people.” (I did not, of course, mention that my intuitions have rarely proved out.)

“And—?”

“Okay, the woman appeared to be straight with us and sincere and all that, but—I don’t know—my gut is telling me that maybe she’s
too
straight and sincere.”

“Whatever that means,” Lou retorted, frowning.

“It means that I don’t quite trust her. And I don’t even know why.”

“How long have you and Mrs. Vincent known each other?” Lou began. He was addressing Marilyn Vincent, who presently occupied the spot her friend had just vacated.

“Since college. And don’t even
try
to get me to tell you how far back that was,” she joked.

My kind of girl.
“Then you went to school in Paris, too,” I said.

The sound that emerged from Marilyn’s throat was more like a guffaw than anything else. “Hardly. Sheila went over to France to study at Le Cordon Bleu. Me? I can just about cook a can of Campbell’s soup. The two of us met right here in the United States. We were roommates at Vassar.”

“I assume this was before she married your cousin,” I continued.

“Oh, yes.”

“You introduced them?”

“I guess you could say that. Although definitely not by choice.”

Lou looked at her inquiringly. “I think an explanation might be helpful there.”

“Well, Sheila and I were partners in a catering firm at the time. Divine Dining, we called it—that was the first name that occurred to us, and it stuck. Mostly because we were so busy with all the other things it takes to start a new company that we never seemed to have the time to come up with anything better. Anyhow, we—”

“Wait,” I broke in. “Didn’t you just say you can’t cook?”

“That’s right,” Marilyn responded. “I was the business end of the operation. That’s my one genuine talent: business. Anyhow, it actually turned out to be a very fortunate pairing. Sheila was able to devote herself to turning out all these great dishes, while I kept an eye on the bottom line and took care of the nuts-and-bolts stuff. Plus, I did most of the serving at the affairs, as well as helping out with the less creative kitchen duties. I wound up being a real whiz at some of them, too. You should have seen me hack the head off a trout.” She concluded the boast with a grimace.

“You were telling us about introducing Mrs. Vincent to your cousin,” Lou put in now, attempting to get her back on track.

“Oh, yes. Sorry. I have a tendency to run off at the mouth—as you can see. Anyhow, we were catering a cocktail party—this was around five years ago—and, damn it, Frankie happened to be one of the guests. He came into the kitchen to talk to me for a couple of minutes, and, of course, Sheila was there, too. Well, like it or not, I had to introduce them. The next day he phoned me for her number.”

“He was smitten immediately?” I asked.

“I’d hardly call it that. If the truth be known, Frankie wasn’t really that interested in women. I’m not implying that he was gay or anything, but he was too consumed with getting ahead in life to make many detours, even for sex.

I always suspected his libido was kind of underactive anyway. At any rate, he was aware I’d gone into business with my college roommate. And he knew that her folks were wealthy. Sheila’s father is president of the Bernardsville Bank and Trust Company. But supposedly the
real
money in that family goes back generations.”

“Then it was primarily the money that attracted him to Mrs. Vincent?” This, from Lou.

“You bet it was.” Marilyn opened her mouth to say something further, then promptly closed it. You could tell from her expression that a thought had just occurred to her. A couple of seconds later she said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before, so I admit to being kind of ignorant when it comes to police interrogations. Still, I can’t for the life of me see what any of this has to do with the fact that Frankie was shot during an attempted robbery.”

“We no longer believe your cousin’s death was the result of a mugging,” Lou responded quietly. “There’s every likelihood this was premeditated murder.”

Marilyn’s hand flew to her mouth. “My God,” was the muffled response. “Oh, my God.” After a moment the hand came away. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

“Not so far.” And Lou proceeded to explain about a witness’s seeing the car across the street from Vincent’s building at least two hours before the homicide took place.

“Maybe this was a case of mistaken identity,” Marilyn suggested hopefully.

“I’m afraid we pretty much have to discount that possibility,” he responded. “Your cousin was facing the killer when he was shot, and they were only a couple of yards away from each other.”

“But it was dark out by then, wasn’t it?”

“Mr. Vincent was standing directly under a light.” There was anguish on Marilyn’s face now. Squeezing her eyes shut, she moaned, “My poor uncle. This will destroy him. Does he know yet?”

“No. Mrs. Vincent was the first member of the family to be informed about this, and she was told only a short while before you walked in here.”

“I’m going to see him this evening—my uncle, I mean. The man’s eighty-six years old and in very poor health. As it is, ever since he heard that Frankie was dead, he’s been saying he wants to do away with himself. So just imagine how he’ll feel when we break it to him that someone actually
planned
to murder his son. Christ! The whole universe revolved around his Franco. That’s what he called him— Franco. Uncle Gino spoiled Frankie rotten from the second he was born. Of course, this was a big part of the problem. And—Oh, shit! I’m doing it again. Sorry. I talk enough when I’m
not
this upset. But now . . .”

“There’s no reason to apologize. I’ve been known to talk a blue streak myself on occasion,” I told her. “Look, do you want my advice?” I didn’t care to risk a recommendation that I mind my own business, so I offered hurriedly, “If I were you, I wouldn’t say a word to your uncle about the shooting’s being premeditated. At least, for the present. Why don’t you wait a while and see how everything shakes out? By then, if your family
should
decide to tell him what actually happened”—and I had to wonder why on earth they would—“there’s at least a chance that the shock of his son’s death will have worn off a bit. So he may be in a better position to deal with it.”

“Thanks,” Marilyn murmured, grateful for the reprieve. “I think that probably would be the best way to handle things.”

“You were telling us a few minutes ago about your cousin’s interest in Mrs. Vincent’s money,” I reminded her then. “One thing I don’t understand: Knowing that she was so wealthy, why hadn’t he ever asked to meet her before?”

“He had no idea what she looked like, and I chose not to enlighten him as to how stunning she is. I also didn’t volunteer that she’s intelligent and poised and classy. Or that her family is extremely well connected socially—although that’s probably something he surmised. Care to know why I did my best to keep him in the dark?” This was obviously a rhetorical question, considering that Marilyn wasted no time in supplying us with the answer. “Because those are the things Frankie was looking for in a wife. Did I say
wife
? What he really wanted was a political advantage.” A loud snort emphasized her disgust. “You see,” she went on, “it was Frankie’s goal for a long, long time to enter politics one day.”

“Did you ever let Sheila in on your feelings about him?”

“I tried to—more than once. But she kept saying she didn’t want to hear about it, so I finally shut up.”

“You seem to have disliked your cousin a great deal,” Lou interjected here.

“I did. Listen, I know it’s a sin to speak ill of the dead, but Frankie was selfish and petty and ruthlessly ambitious. You know what
really
made me gag, though? He was so charming that no one seemed to notice.”

“But some people must have caught on to what he was actually like,” Lou countered. “He couldn’t have pulled the wool over
everyone’s
eyes.”

“Well . . . I
am
exaggerating. But he did manage to fool an awful lot of people. Frankie was a very clever man. He could play you like a violin.”

“Did you know that Mrs. Vincent was planning to divorce him?” I asked.

Marilyn didn’t miss a beat. “No, but I’m not exactly shocked. And good for her.”

“Are you saying this for any reason in particular, or are you just speaking in general?”

“Oh, I’m saying it for plenty of reasons in particular. For one thing, Frankie made Sheila give up the catering business almost the instant they walked down the aisle. Then for another, when he was running for the state assembly, he had her practically chained to this place, whipping up goodies for his endless political get-togethers. The only way she could have done any writing was standing at the kitchen stove.”

“Writing?” Lou repeated.

“Uh-huh. Since Frankie refused to let her go out and work, Sheila decided she’d occupy herself with the kind of work she could do at home. So she started to channel her creative energy into composing cookbooks. But then that had to go on hold, too, so she could help Frankie get into office. It was only after he lost the election that he
permitted
her to start writing again. She’s on her third cookbook now. Did you happen to notice that good-looking gray-haired guy she was talking to when you came in?” Marilyn’s glance went from my face to Lou’s and then back again.

“
I
sure did,” I answered with a grin.

“That’s Morgan Sklaar, Sheila’s publisher. But what I was going to say was that even after she was able to pursue her own interests, things weren’t exactly ginger-peachy between her and Frankie. He was hardly a doll to live with. Everything always had to be his way. He dictated where they went, what they did, who they did it with . . . That stupid all-white living room? Frankie’s choice. Sheila was dying for chintz and cabbage roses.”

The more I heard, the more surprised I was that Sheila Vincent hadn’t dumped her lout of a spouse a long time ago. And I said so.

“I think that at first she was determined to make a go of it. Maybe she even thought she could change him,” Marilyn conjectured. “Later she probably decided to wait until the election was over. But right after that her father had a stroke, and I know his health was uppermost in her mind. I imagine she didn’t want to risk upsetting him with the news that her marriage was kaput.”

“The father’s all right now?” Lou asked.

“Pretty much. He still isn’t a hundred percent, but even months back Sheila was telling me how much better he was doing. She must have been holding off on the divorce, though, until she was absolutely sure he could handle it okay.”

“I’d have thought Mrs. Vincent would have mentioned something to you about wanting a divorce,” Lou remarked. “You do seem to be pretty close to her.”

“We’re extremely close. But Sheila’s always been a very private person. Besides, although we’re in constant touch, we don’t actually spend much time alone together. Between her writing and my job—I work at an ad agency now—we’re both pretty tied up during the week. And then weekends Frankie is—was—always around, so there weren’t that many opportunities for a heart-to-heart.”

I had another question. “Do you have any idea if there were other good friends Mrs. Vincent might have confided in?”

“Well, she was sort of tight with this woman who lives across the street—Doris Shippman. But if she didn’t say anything to me about splitting up, there’s no way she would have talked to her about it.”

“You know,” I remarked, “from what I’ve seen of your friend today, she seems like a pretty sharp lady. So I’m having trouble comprehending how she could ever have married someone like your cousin in the first place. Particularly since a woman who’s as attractive as Mrs. Vincent is must have had lots of opportunities to hook up with a more suitable man.”