Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (10 page)

The apartment was stifling when I got in, but I didn’t stop to turn on the air conditioner. I went straight to the phone.

Now, rather than do what I felt I had to do just then, I’d have preferred to chew nails. Unfortunately, however, I didn’t have that option. So swallowing the resentment I currently bore toward Tim Fielding, I put in a call to him.

“Fielding.” He didn’t say it; he growled it.

“Hi, Tim,” I responded cheerily.

The reaction was not what you could call heartwarming. “No, not again!”

“I realize that you gave me a lot of time this morning, and I really do appreciate it.” (I almost made myself gag with that one.) “But the thing is, I just learned something you should be aware of.”

“And what would that be?”

“I can’t go into it on the phone.”

“Then forget it.”

“This is information that’s important to your investigation,” I argued.

“Fine. I’m listening.”

“It would be so much better if we talked in person. Suppose I buy you lunch tomorrow? Anyplace you choose.”

“Tell me, Shapiro, how long have we known each other?”

“I can’t say offhand. Maybe—”

“Never mind. It’s been years, right? And how often have you called me with an offer like this one? In fact, if my memory isn’t playing tricks on me, as recently as this morning you were supposed to enlighten me. The only thing on your devious little mind, though—and don’t think I wasn’t aware of it, either—was to find out what evidence we had against your client.”

“That’s not true. Didn’t I—”

“You’re the female version of the boy who cried wolf, Shapiro. And, accept it, it’s not going to work anymore.”

Well, it got through to me that this time Fielding wasn’t about to budge. So rather than subject myself to further
agita,
I gave in. “It would make more sense to do this face-to-face,” I grumbled. “But okay. What I’ve discovered is that John Lander’s wife is worth millions, and John is her only heir. Her attorney can verify this for you.” I supplied him with the phone number of William Morse Connor, which he didn’t seem particularly eager to receive.

“So? What’s your point?”

“Look, maybe you’re not aware of this, but my client’s marriage is far from idyllic. I’ve been informed of this by a number of people.”
(Yeah, all two of them,
I reminded myself—a reminder I then proceeded to ignore.) “But it wouldn’t have been practical for him to seek a divorce under the circumstances. The circumstances I’m referring to being that John has very little money of his own. His real estate business, from all reports, isn’t any too successful; apparently he has to rely on his wife’s generosity to keep it afloat. The consensus is—and this is among people in a position to know—that if it weren’t for John’s financial dependence on his wife, the Landers would have been kaput a long time ago. I’ll tell you, though, it’s beyond me how he manages to stay with that ball-buster. You’ve
met Trudie Lander, Tim. What was your impression of her?”

“All right, so she’s not exactly Miss Sweetness and Light. But where are you going with this, anyhow?”

“You believe that John shot his cousin for the inheritance, correct? But if he were willing to commit murder to improve his finances, he could have done it way back when by getting rid of his wife. Think about how
that
would have benefited him. He’d not only have become around four million dollars richer, but that awful woman would have been permanently out of his hair. Little Trudie is still alive and kicking, however. And why is this?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Because John Lander is not an assassin, that’s why.”

“It really pains me to burst your bubble, but your argument isn’t worth diddly,” Fielding said dryly. “In the first place, maybe the man just didn’t find four million as tempting as a few hundred million.”

“Four million isn’t exactly small change,” I retorted. “Especially when it carries the built-in bonus of freedom from Trudie.”

“Listen, where do you come off deciding what that marriage is like? In spite of your less than charitable view of Mrs. Lander, you can’t be certain how her
husband
feels about her. There’s no way an outsider can determine a thing like that.”

Well, regardless of having previously made this same assertion myself, I had no compunction about disavowing it now. “John is not happy with Trudie,” I insisted. “That’s common knowledge.”

“I suppose the people who imparted this ‘common knowledge’ share a bedroom with the Landers,” Fielding shot back.

“I still say there’s trouble there.”

Tim Fielding refused to let me have the last word on the subject. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Will you at least talk to this William Morse Connor—Mrs. Lander’s lawyer?”

“Sure. What have I got to lose?”

“Thanks, Tim.”

“If I were you, though,” he put in, “I wouldn’t count on anything coming of it.”

An admonition that, not being a complete idiot, I considered definitely uncalled for.

I can’t claim I was surprised by Fielding’s attitude. Still, I hadn’t been able to keep myself from hoping that when I presented my argument, he’d realize that I was making sense. Which goes to show that a little misplaced optimism can be a painful thing.

I was hardly in the best of moods as I got dressed for dinner at the Union Square Cafe that evening. (As you can gather, Cousin Alma’s stepdaughter had come through with flying colors—unless, of course, there’d simply been a cancellation.)
Snap out of it,
I said to the woman in the mirror as I applied my mascara.
It means a lot to Jackie that you enjoy yourself tonight. So you’d better have a good time—even if it kills you.

As it turned out, though, it didn’t require anything that drastic.

The restaurant itself is a very relaxing place. Our waitress was friendly and efficient. And the food, terrific.

Jackie pulled out all the stops, too. As soon as we were seated she ordered a bottle of merlot to accompany the meal. In case you’re interested—and even if you’re not—I began my dinner with a delicious portobello mushroom salad with sliced Parmesan cheese. Jackie had the bean soup, which was unusually tasty. (I know this firsthand, having sampled it.) For an entrée she chose the Black Angus steak with mashed potatoes and practically twisted my arm to do the same. Well, after those two courses we both
maintained we were too filled up for dessert. But an instant later we decided that this didn’t mean we were too stuffed to share. We wound up digging into a banana tart with honey-vanilla ice cream. Yum.

The evening also proved to be a revelation, with Jackie confiding that she was seriously considering putting the screws to Derwin to make an honest woman of her. Although, naturally, she didn’t phrase it quite that way. The angst she’d just experienced with regard to his supposed infidelity had, she stated, made her more mindful than ever of how much the man meant to her.

Almost immediately, however, Jackie started to backtrack a bit.

“Of course, marriage might put an unnecessary strain on a perfectly good relationship,” she murmured as she carefully deliberated the idea. “After all, until this . . . umm . . . misperception of mine, the status quo suited me fine. Most of the time, anyhow. And maybe having Derwin around constantly could present some difficulties—mostly because I’m not always as tolerant as I should be.”
She can say that again!
Then almost to herself: “He can’t really help that he snores like that. Still, it drives me crazy—I can never get a good night’s sleep when we’re together. And he
is
pretty sloppy. One day I found four pairs of socks under his bed.
Four!
But on the other hand, I’d hate it more if he were a neatness freak. He’s also terribly stubborn. Even if you prove to Derwin in black and white that he’s mistaken about something, he won’t own up to it. It was the newspaper that was wrong. Or the book misprinted the date of the battle. Or whatever. It drives me insane when he acts like that. I suppose I should simply ‘yes, dear’ him to death, but as you know, it isn’t in my nature.” A fleeting smile here. “And he is awfully . . . careful about money. But it’s not his fault,” she was quick to add.
“When Derwin was growing up, his family was very poor. More often than not, they had to worry about where their next meal would be coming from.”

Jackie was silent for close to a minute now. And—for once—I wisely refrained from commenting. “Over the years I’ve adjusted to a lot of his other faults, though,” she went on, “so it’s very possible that I’ll eventually become accustomed to those things, as well. That nervous habit he has of jiggling his leg whenever he’s sitting down? It doesn’t bother me in the least anymore. Honestly. Also, I used to be ready to scream every time Derwin whistled through his teeth, and I’m barely aware of it these days.”

She sighed. “Oh, I’m just not sure. Maybe I should hold off on pressuring him for a while—I mean, until I’m satisfied that I really do want to marry him. At this moment I’m still so grateful that I haven’t lost him to some baby-faced little chippy that it might not be the time for me to come to any decision. What do you think, Dez?”

Well, since my opinion had been requested . . .

“I think you’re absolutely right, Jackie. Why not wait and see how you feel in a few weeks?”

Jackie nodded. “Who knows? By not delivering any ultimatum, I could even be sparing myself from rejection. After all, Derwin may have a few issues with regard to me, too. I’m certain you’re not aware of it, Desiree, but I do have one or two minor little flaws of my own.”

And if you’re wondering, she was grinning when she said it.

On Thursday morning I forced myself out of a stress-free sleep. But as soon as I opened my eyes I was having that telephone conversation with Tim Fielding again. And fretting about my client again. And worrying—again—whether I’d ever discover who had sent Edward on to his Maker and was attempting to do the same favor for John.

Then I remembered: Sara Sharp was coming home today.

This was a reason to be hopeful—and Lord knows, I needed one. Maybe there was
something
Edward’s widow could tell me. But as anxious as I was to talk to the woman, I convinced myself to wait until the next day before contacting her.

I got to the office early (for me); it was barely nine-thirty.

Ten minutes later, just as I was about to—what else?—begin typing up some notes, Ellen called.

“Oh, you
are
in already.” She sounded surprised.

She was spared the irritated comeback she’d no doubt have been treated to if I hadn’t been in this fairly optimistic mood. (Not that her reaction wasn’t merited, you understand; I just resented having to hear it.) Instead, I limited my response to an offhand, “I got here a little while ago.”

“Brides by Genevieve is having another sale this week,” Ellen informed me excitedly, referring to the
establishment in Englewood, New Jersey, where she’d purchased her wedding gown. “I received a flyer from them yesterday, only I didn’t check my mail until this morning before I left for work. I was thinking that if you were free tonight, we could drive over there and see if maybe they have something special for you. Any chance you can make it?” Her voice was almost pleading.

Well, I didn’t have anything that pressing on my agenda, and as I’ve mentioned, I’d already made up my mind to placate Ellen and start shopping for my matron of honor dress soon. “Tonight would be fine.”

“No kidding? That’s great. We’ll have to use your car, though. Mike took his to the hospital this morning.”

“That’s no prob—” Suddenly I remembered. “Uh-oh. Minnie works there on Thursday nights.” My palms went instantly damp.

We’d had our problems, Minnie and I, from the second Ellen and I walked into the place. Right away the saleswoman took umbrage at the expression she
imagined
seeing on my face when she introduced herself. Her sister Genevieve hadn’t always had such a fancy moniker, either, Minnie had advised me testily—Brides by Genevieve’s proprietor, it seemed, was really named Gertie. Anyway, we finally got past that little bit of ridiculousness. But then, once Ellen had selected her gown—an absolutely stunning white lace, incidentally—Minnie tried to convince me that she was uniquely qualified to assist me in purchasing my own dress for the wedding. In substantiation of this she pointed out that “not exactly being another Olive Oyl myself” (actually, the woman was so enormous she made me look like a nail file), she could tell just what would flatter someone carrying around all my weight. Which is not quite the way one likes to hear oneself described. The upshot of that visit to the bridal
shop was that Minnie was the very last person in the world I’d allow to outfit me for my niece’s nuptials.

At any rate, Ellen was insisting that I was mistaken, that Minnie came in on Wednesday evenings and Saturdays.

“
Thursday
evenings and Saturdays.”

“Why don’t I check? I’ll call you right back.”

In two minutes Ellen was on the line again. “You were right,” she admitted sheepishly. “I phoned the store, and guess who answered? Minnie. I said I just wanted to know how late she’d be working today. Until 9
P
.
M
. , she told me. I hung up before she had a chance to ask who I was.”