Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (17 page)

Of course, what I picked up on at this moment should have hit me between the eyes the instant I’d heard it. But somehow it had sailed right over my head. And while I believe that even without my (temporarily) upbeat outlook I would have discovered the truth eventually, I’m convinced that my state of mind facilitated things.

At any rate, as impatient as I tend to be, it’s rare that I have quite as much trouble restraining myself from lifting the telephone receiver as I did just then. But my watch read, “11:10.” And I recognized that this might not be the ideal time to deliver my message, particularly when you considered its contents.

I expected that I’d be too agitated to sleep that night. And I was right. I didn’t even close my eyes until after 6
A
.
M
. , and I was up by seven—
with no prompting from the alarm clock
. Which, in my entire life, probably hadn’t happened more than once or twice before.

I was at the office at exactly nine o’clock. Jackie’s jaw dropped to her chest when she saw me.

“Why are you here so early?” she asked suspiciously.

“Yesterday I learned something about the Lander investigation that’s got me so wired I practically bolted out of bed this morning.”

Jackie squealed. “You found out who did it!”

“Whoa. It’s nothing that significant. Let’s just say that I’ve made a little progress. Actually, I suppose, a very little.”

“So you still don’t know who tried to do in your client and offed that other fellow—his cousin?”

Offed?

I can’t figure out why Jackie—or Ellen, either, for that matter—deems it necessary to dip into cop-speak every so often. Maybe they’ve OD’d on
NYPD Blue
. Or maybe it’s intended as a show of solidarity with me—although I almost never use that jargon myself. Anyhow, it sounds so unnatural coming from the two of them that it’s all I can do to prevent the grin I feel inside from sneaking out onto my lips.

I managed to keep a straight face, though. “The killer is still a great big question mark.”

“Well, even if you haven’t worked it all out yet, you will.”

That’s the nice thing about having good friends; they always try to say something encouraging. Whether they mean it or not.

It was ten after nine when I dialed Sara Sharp. I’d held out as long as I could.

Now, it was hard to tell whether Sara’s reaction to the sound of my voice was one of annoyance, anger, or fear. But for sure it wasn’t pleasure. Her response to my “This is Desiree Shapiro” was a clipped, “Listen, I thought I’d made it clear that I have no intention of giving you the name of the man.”

So how’s that for a non sequitur?

“I don’t want the name of the man,” I apprised her.

“Oh?”

“I already have it.”

There was a gasp, then silence.

“Sara?”

“I’m here.”

“We need to talk.”

Another interval of silence. “That would probably be wise.”

Less than an hour later Sara was ushering me into her living room.

She seemed to have lost weight since the last time, and there hadn’t been that much of her to begin with. But considering that “the last time” was only a day earlier, the weight loss was doubtless entirely in my addled brain.

“Coffee?” she offered mechanically.

“No thanks, nothing.” Taking a seat, I glanced around the room.

“My sister isn’t in,” Sara notified me, reacting to my wandering gaze. She sank down on the sofa. “Jane’ll be gone until at least one-thirty. That’s why I thought it would be best if you came by now.”

Damn!
Jane had spoiled me, proving herself an invaluable ally when I’d questioned the widow previously. Well, I was on my own today—like it or not. And, to be honest, I didn’t really like it that much.

“All right, go ahead,” Sara commanded. “Just who is it you suspect me of seeing?”

“My client. And I don’t suspect; I’m positive.”

She actually smiled. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

The woman was convincing; I’d give her that. Nevertheless, I was sure of my ground. “Hardly.” And removing a notebook from my handbag, I opened it to the page I’d folded down. “We were speaking about Trudie, and you made the comment”—I went to a short phrase underlined in yellow—“ ‘. . . we’ve certainly never bonded.” ’

“That sounds familiar. But what significance is it supposed to have?”

“You’ll see in a minute,” I answered, peering down at the notebook again. “Later, when you were about to disclose the abuse Trudie had suffered in her
childhood, you told me”—and I read from another underlined passage—“ ‘Trudie would be devastated if it should get back to her that anyone found out.’ Do you recall this?”

“Not really, although it’s possible that I said it. But I still don’t have any idea what you’re getting at.” She was, however, plucking away at some nonexistent threads on her jeans now and looking as strained as I’d ever seen her.

“According to your own words, you and Trudie weren’t close. So why would she divulge such a painful secret to you?”

Continuing the preoccupation with her jeans, Sara stared down at them as she responded, “Obviously, Trudie felt the need to unburden herself to someone, and I happened to be around at the time.” She raised her eyes while continuing to pluck. “Listen, I’ve known people to pour their hearts out to complete strangers—individuals they meet on a plane, for example.”

“That’s not the same thing at all. The chances of ever seeing these strangers again are pretty slim. Which is what makes them such appealing confidants.”

“Well, I don’t know why Trudie decided to reveal this to me, but she did.”

I shook my head. “John confided in you regarding what had happened to his wife—he must have. And I can’t picture him doing that if you and he were merely casual friends. My guess would be that he spilled the beans to explain—or maybe the word is ‘excuse’—why Trudie was the way she was and why he continued to remain in the marriage. Isn’t that how it came about?”

“Absolutely not. Listen, I allowed you to come over today to determine whether you really do have some idea as to the person I had been going out with. Well, I’m very relieved that you don’t.” She leaned toward me now. “It wasn’t John, Desiree.”

I was beginning to waver (I told you before that she was good, didn’t I?), but I couldn’t afford to entertain any doubts at this point, so I promptly banished them. How to get Sara to open up, though . . .

The only thing I could think of was to employ a bluff of some sort. I mentally dusted off “old reliable”—you know, the claim that she and John had been spotted together. Like in the vicinity of the school. But at that instant an alternative intruded itself into my head, and before I had time to even consider its merits, I found myself declaring, “Tell that to Trudie.”

Sara’s agitated fingers abruptly stilled, and she met my eyes. “What are you saying?”

“That Trudie learned about the affair.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. But the woman didn’t look anywhere near as assured as she sounded. In fact, moments later she added uncertainly, “Are you telling me that Trudie talked to you about this?”

“Yes, briefly. Listen, what do you imagine induced me to reread the notes I’d taken on my earlier visits here?”

“At the risk of sounding crass, Desiree, you’re full of—” She hesitated before completing this with “baloney.” Which I can swear was a last-minute substitution.

“I’m telling you the truth. If you don’t believe me, though, give her a call.” I hate to brag, but, well, the way I said it practically oozed sincerity.

Sara didn’t respond at once, during which time I became so antsy I started to scratch a nonexistent itch on my forearm. Finally, she put to me in a small, tremulous voice, “How did she find out?”

“I haven’t a clue. But she knows.”

“The last thing John and I wanted was to hurt anyone,” Sara murmured. “It’s just that our feelings for each other were so . . . so
overwhelming
. But we did
make every effort to be discreet. Apparently, though, we weren’t terribly successful.” She shook her head sadly. “Trudie’s already been through so much, too.

“You’re probably thinking that I’m a complete hypocrite,” the widow added. “But I wasn’t aware of the incident in Trudie’s past, not until John and I were already involved. Maybe if he’d told me about it right at the start, I’d have ended things before they really got off the ground.”

I must have looked skeptical.

“No, you’re right,” she admitted, noting my expression. “If I was willing to deceive a wonderful man like Edward, it’s not likely I’d have allowed what occurred with Trudie to deter me, either—especially since I don’t even care that much for the woman. Still, I felt guiltier than ever about being in a relationship with John once I heard about her horrendous ordeal. I can’t explain it; in a way, it’s like a sisterhood thing. Does that make sense to you?”

“I imagine it does. Rape is the sort of horror every woman can relate to. Umm, when was it this thing with you and John began, anyhow?”

“Almost two years ago. Shortly after the four of us went on vacation together.”

“And the last time you saw him was—?”

“At my husband’s funeral.”

“But I assume you two have been in touch since then.”

“Only twice. John called me on my first evening in Virginia. I asked him to please not phone again.” Sara smiled wanly. “These days I intend to occupy myself with doing an awful lot of soul-searching.”

“And the second time you spoke to him?”

“That was when I returned from my sister’s, and you informed me of the attacks on his life. I was the one who did the calling then.”

“And John’s okay with this—your ending things, I mean?”

“Not exactly. But he doesn’t have much choice.” Sara went back to pulling at the invisible threads on her pants before asking, “Is he aware that his wife knows about us?”

“Probably not. Apparently she isn’t ready to confront him yet.”

“You haven’t said anything to him?”

“I believe that should be left to Trudie. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The widow nodded. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of being the one to break the news to him.”

“Good. Besides, John has enough to be concerned about at present. I’d like to see him concentrate on just staying in one piece.”

Sara’s “amen” came out in a whisper.

“There’s something I’m curious about, though,” I brought up then. “How did you come to use a pottery school as a cover for your meetings with him?”

“I needed an excuse to get out of the house, and I read an ad for Going to Pot in the
Village Voice
. Well, I’d always wanted to take a course in pottery-making, and the school is located about as far downtown as you can get—right near the Brooklyn Bridge. Which is ideal, since John takes the bridge home from work every day. Also, being so far out of the way, we figured it wasn’t likely that we’d run into anyone we know.”

“You, uh, would go to a motel around there?” I didn’t actually have to ask this—not insofar as the investigation, I mean. But frankly, my nosy nature demanded it.

“John rented a flat near the school—over on Spring Street,” Sara answered casually. I’d really expected her to take umbrage at the question, but I guess she felt that in view of all that I was already privy to, this little tidbit didn’t amount to very much.

Suddenly she regarded me searchingly. “Yesterday you didn’t seem to place much stock in the possibility
that it could have been a coincidence that my . . . my lover called off our date on the night of the shooting. But now that you know it was John . . . well, you
must
have an idea of how hard he works and how many evening commitments he has. In fact, every week I was half-expecting that he wouldn’t be able to make it.” She sat up a little straighter before stating firmly, “John had nothing to do with my husband’s death, Desiree.”

“I agree.”

Now, I can appreciate what you must be thinking. After running off at the mouth for so long about how improbable it was that this cancellation had been coincidental, I was totally reversing myself. And it wasn’t merely because the man involved was my client, honestly. As Sara pointed out, John was a workaholic. So the odds were that he would have had to break some of their Tuesday evening appointments. The only surprising thing was that he hadn’t done it before then. Plus, I certainly didn’t share Tim Fielding’s skepticism about those attempts to eliminate him. And tell me this: Why would a murderer bring in a PI to conduct an investigation of the murder? I mean, does that make sense to you? Even more important than all of this, though, I
knew
John. And I simply could not accept that he was a killer. “If Edward hadn’t been shot when he was,” I told Sara, “I’m quite sure it would have happened soon afterward. And for the same reason the perpetrator is out to get rid of John.”

“Those are my thoughts exactly. It never even occurred to me that John could have been responsible for Edward’s death.”

It was funny. But something in her tone made me wonder if it was me Sara was trying to convince of this—or herself.