Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (2 page)

It went through my head that John might have me confused with someone else. Nevertheless, I elected to take the praise at face value. It had been a long stretch between compliments.

Soon after this the Landers supplied me with some pertinent phone numbers and addresses. After which they prepared to leave.

Trudie was already on her feet, and John was about to rise when I cautioned him, “You’ll have to conduct yourself with a great deal of care until we get to the bottom of this. Keep looking over your shoulder. Be suspicious of everything. And if anything doesn’t smell quite right to you, do whatever is necessary to extricate yourself from the situation. And then don’t hesitate to call the police. Okay?”

“Okay,” he answered.

“Is that a promise?” I persisted.

“It’s a promise.”

“And naturally, you’ll let me know
instantly
if anything unusual happens.”

“Of course I will.”

In spite of these assurances, however, it was with a twinge of fear that I watched my new client walk out of the office.

I mean, over the past couple of years, I’d acquired a certain degree of faith in my abilities. So I was reasonably confident that I would be able to uncover the person who had attempted to take his life—and who, at this very moment, might be preparing to have another go at it.

But the question was, could I do it in time?

The next morning the alarm clock yanked me out of a tight sleep at eight o’clock. Which on a Saturday I regard as practically a predawn awakening. But today I was motivated.

In fact, I’d never before felt the sense of urgency that I did with John Lander. I mean, when I’m involved in a murder investigation, my client is usually a friend or lover or relative of the deceased’s. But in this instance my client was in imminent danger of
becoming
the deceased.

Now, I know that on Friday I’d floated the idea that the attack on John might not have been personal, that there was an outside chance it was a drive-by shooting. But the truth is, I’d have been willing to bet my entire earring collection—and this is something I hold very dear—that the incident was tied in with his cousin’s murder.

So right after the Landers left me, I’d phoned Sara Sharp, widow of Edward. Her answering machine informed me that she’d be staying with her sister Dana in Richmond until next Thursday.

Immediately after striking out there, I’d tried the Riley twins, one after the other, hoping to set up a separate appointment with each of them for today. But as it turned out, Shawna and Scott were both away from their desks when I called. And,
unfortunately, John and Trudie hadn’t been able to provide me with David Hearn’s office number, so I couldn’t get in touch with him, either.

That night I had to forgo any further attempts to contact these people because I had plans for dinner and the ballet. I don’t want you to think I wound up making calf eyes at some fascinating member of the masculine persuasion, however. The date was with my next-apartment neighbor Barbara Gleason, with whom I not only share a common wall but on occasion some interesting—although frequently contentious—evenings. The contentious part more often than not the result of Barbara’s being one of these intractable individuals who insists the world was meant to be skinny, which leads her to monitor almost every morsel I consume. And frankly, I don’t take a whole lot of pleasure in watching her watch me. As it happened, though, she was on her best behavior on Friday, allowing me to enjoy my shrimp scampi without a single
tsk-tsk.
It was a wonderful meal followed by an absolutely exquisite performance of my favorite ballet,
La Bayadère.

But getting back to Saturday morning . . .

As anxious as I was to start my inquiries, I didn’t think anyone on my list would be all that appreciative of an 8
A
.
M
. call on a weekend. (I can tell you right now that I wouldn’t be.) Actually, I reminded myself, considering the nice, warm weather—it was beach weather, really—I’d be lucky if any of these people were even in town.

At any rate, once I’d washed up, I put on the coffee, toasted an Entenmann’s corn muffin, and poured some Rice Krispies and milk in a bowl. Then after shoveling down my breakfast—I was too impatient to really taste it—I remained at the table and began working yesterday’s
New York Times
crossword puzzle. As usual, the daily puzzle didn’t have me feeling half as
mentally stunted as one of Sunday’s ego-bruising doozies, and I managed to finish a decent chunk of it before getting really antsy again.

Squirming in my seat at that point, I checked the kitchen clock: nine-thirty.
Still on the early side,
I reluctantly conceded. So freshening my coffee—which, incidentally, was horrendous, but since that’s the only kind of coffee I can make, I’m used to it—I returned to the puzzle. Finally, at ten minutes to ten, I gave myself permission to lift the receiver.

I dialed Shawna’s number first. The yawn that came immediately after the “Hello?” led me to conclude that I’d dragged the girl out of bed, although she politely denied it. I told her my name, then explained that I was a private investigator hired by John Lander to find out who had taken a shot at him earlier that week.

“You think I had something to do with
that
?” she demanded, her soft little voice increasing considerably in volume now.

“No, not at all. But I would be remiss if I didn’t talk to everyone who might stand to inherit from your uncle’s will.”

“Listen, I like John. And so does Scott. Besides, we would never
kill
anybody—either of us. Not for
any
amount of money.”

“I imagine that’s true. But I’d really appreciate it if you’d answer a few questions for me.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“It would be much better if we talked in person. Could we get together somewhere?”

“I guess so,” Shawna agreed, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. But at any rate, it was arranged that I’d stop by her West Fifty-first Street apartment at three-thirty that afternoon.

As soon as we disconnected, I phoned her brother’s home—and reached his answering machine. I didn’t figure there was anything to be gained by leaving a
message. I mean, what were the chances of his returning the call of a woman he didn’t know and, more importantly, would almost certainly not care to know?

David Hearn was next.

He picked up, at least, which I regarded as a decent start. But things immediately went into a downhill skid.

Introducing myself, I explained why I needed to see him. “I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible,” I said. “When do you think you might be able to make it?”

“Never,” David answered lightly in this young, bordering-on-girlish voice. I swear, he sounded as if he were barely out of puberty.

I groped around for a few words of persuasion. “I won’t take up much of your time,” I promised.

It didn’t do the trick. “Wrong. You won’t take up
any
of my time,” he retorted, his tone almost playful.

I tried again. “Look, somebody wants John Lander dead. And it’s possible you may be able to help prevent whoever it is from getting his way.”

“I don’t know beans about any shooting, Ms. Steinberg—”

“Shapiro,” I corrected.

“Okay,
Shapiro.
” And then accusingly: “I’m sure you said ‘Steinberg’ before, though. Anyway, I really have to go now. I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet, and I’ve got a dentist’s appointment at eleven-thirty.”

“A dentist’s appointment? On a
Saturday
?”

“I probably found the only dentist in Manhattan who sees people on Saturdays.”

I had to make one last effort. “I think I should tell you that if anything happens to my client, I’d feel compelled to relay this to the police—your refusal to cooperate, I’m talking about. That might not look too good for you, you know.”

A long pause followed. “There’s nothing like being threatened before your morning coffee. But you win,
Ms. Whatever-Your-Name-Is. Dr. Blake is on Seventy-eighth and Second. Can we do this somewhere around there—at a coffee shop, say? I should be through by twelve-thirty.”

“Better yet, why don’t you come to my apartment? I live right in the neighborhood, on East Eighty-second Street.”

“Yeah, all right.”

I gave David the address. “I’ll even fix you some lunch.”

“Okay, if you insist.” And he chuckled.

“Oh, I do. Well, see you later.”

The receiver was already halfway to its cradle when I heard, “But no fish, huh? I
hate
fish.”

“Well, can you do it today?”

There was no need to ask who was on the other end of the phone line. “Can I do
what
today?”

“We talked about starting to shop for your matron of honor gown,” I was reminded.

“Oh, geez. I’m really sorry. A lot’s been happening, and it slipped my mind. I already have two appointments set up for this afternoon.”

“Well, we’d better start looking around soon. You don’t want to leave it for the last minute, do you? Suppose you have trouble finding something you like?”

I had to smile. My niece Ellen wasn’t getting married until December. And while I was absolutely ecstatic that she and Mike were going to make it permanent at last—and at the Plaza, no less—I didn’t feel this pressing need to drop everything and start combing the stores for a suitable dress. Not seven months in advance, anyway.

“Listen,” Ellen—a buyer at Macy’s—said hopefully, “I’ll be off again next Wednesday.” Her tone left little doubt as to how I was expected to implement this information.

“I’ll try to get together then, Ellen, but I can’t tell you definitely. The thing is, I’ve just taken on a case that’s going to require a lot of time.”

“What
kind
of a case?” she asked suspiciously.
Ellen makes no attempt to hide her preference for my business activities as they once were. Some years back, you see, the worst that could happen to me in the course of an investigation was that I’d be subjected to a few blistering epithets from a missing husband who wasn’t particularly grateful for the effort I’d expended in finding him. Of course, there
was
that occasion when I was on the receiving end of about a dozen scratches and three ankle bites, these administered to my person by this ill-tempered cat I’d been unfortunate enough to locate for his owner. His name was Sweetie, too (the cat’s; not the owner’s). Imagine!

At any rate, I didn’t anticipate that Ellen would be overjoyed when she learned about my latest project. But I figured I’d fill her in now and get it over with. So, steeling myself for her reaction, I related the facts, keeping them as dry and terse as I could. But I might just as well have painted my narrative with a purple brush.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed when I was finished. “You’re saying that someone is trying to
murder
your client?”

“I’m only saying that he barely missed being shot.” Ellen’s tremulous falsetto convinced me that if there was ever a necessity to resurrect my all-but-rejected coincidence theory, it was then. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this was one of those drive-bys, though. And if so, what’s the likelihood of its happening again?”

“But suppose it wasn’t a drive-by? Don’t you see that
you
c-could be in danger, too? If the k-killer makes a second attempt, he c-could wind up hitting you b-by mistake.”

It is only in moments of extreme stress that my niece stutters—I don’t think I’d heard her do it in years. So I tried that much harder to minimize her fears.

“Don’t be silly, Ellen. After all, it’s not as if I’m
acting as the man’s bodyguard. My only job is to check into the attack on him. Besides, if he
was
actually targeted—although, as I told you, that probably isn’t the case—the perpetrator is almost certainly the same person who killed his cousin. For that reason, I’ll be spending the majority of my time investigating the cousin’s death. Most of my contact with John Lander will be relegated to the phone, the way it normally is with my clients. Honestly, it’s doubtful that I’ll have more than one or two additional meetings with him. And you can be sure those won’t take place on some deserted street at midnight, either.”

“Still, swear to me you’ll be extra careful. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You didn’t swear.”

“I swear,” I said, irritated by then and trying very hard not to let it show. I mean, Ellen is one of my favorite people in the world. And I really am grateful for her concern. Nevertheless, sweet as she is and much as I love her, there’s no getting around it: Ellen Kravitz can be a terrible nudge.

We hung up after I’d assured her—twice—that I’d do my best to leave Wednesday open for shopping. Then I got back to what I’d been working on prior to Ellen’s call: making myself presentable for the first of my suspects.

Jaw set determinedly, I marched into the bathroom and picked up my hairbrush again. Today was humid, with rain predicted, and as is typical during weather like this, my glorious hennaed hair had been insisting on going its own way—which is every which way. However, almost immediately after resuming my battle with all of those nasty little clumps, I raised the white flag. I really wasn’t equal to the challenge right now.

Hurrying to the bedroom closet, I got out my wig, an exact replica of my own hair but with a much more
accommodating nature. I gazed down at the ratty-looking thing with genuine affection. You can’t imagine how comforting it is to know that it’s there for a rainy day—along with all of those other days when I just plain run out of patience.

In a matter of minutes I had the wig whipped into shape. And, for a change, it wasn’t long afterward that the rest of me was clothed and shod. Then I went into the living room and deposited myself on the sofa, where for the next half hour I would wait impatiently for the downstairs buzzer to signal the arrival of David Hearn.

If there was ever anyone who didn’t fit his voice, I was looking at him.

I mean, from what I’d heard on the telephone I had expected a skinny little seventeen-year-old with a liberal sprinkling of acne. I’d even thrown in bad teeth when I conjured up David Hearn in my head.

The real thing, however, was well into his twenties and large. Over six feet, I guessed, and at least 180 pounds. He was also dark and muscular and good-looking.
Very
good-looking. His bright blue tee shirt had nothing on his eyes, which were an even more vibrant, deeper blue. And if you could attribute those sparkling teeth to today’s dental visit, well, all I can say is that I’d trade Dr. Louis H. Lutz for David’s guy in a millisecond. And, oh yes, my visitor’s face was totally zitless.

Standing on the threshold, he asked hesitantly, “Ms. Steinberg?” Although the girlish tone seemed less pronounced than it had on the phone, it was jarring enough so that his hunky image took an abrupt, if transient, nosedive.

“That’s right. Only it’s Shapiro. But call me Desiree.”

“Uh, sure,” he responded, eyeing me skeptically.

It was obvious that I wasn’t what David had been anticipating either. Which didn’t exactly throw me. Over the years I’ve discovered that when most people
think “female private eye” they draw from the movie version. You know, a tall, busty blonde in a tight sweater and four-inch heels, her shapely legs stretching practically to infinity.

Well, in my case, this is definitely not what they get.

Let’s begin with the legs. Mine don’t go very far. The truth is, being barely five-two, there are plenty of times when I’m sitting down that my feet don’t even make contact with the floor. Among the other differences between yours truly and those fictional lady PIs is the fact that I’m full-figured (a term I much prefer to the alternatives)—with my chest the only part of me that
isn’t
well padded. Which, I suppose, is the reason I don’t have a single tight sweater to my name. Something else I don’t have is blond hair, Egyptian henna being responsible for this exquisite shade of red. And don’t bother checking my closet for any four-inch heels. I wouldn’t be able to
walk
in those things, much less chase after the bad guys in them. (Actually, you’ll never find me chasing after the bad guys in
any
height heel.) But to get back to my visitor . . .

Following me into the kitchen, David addressed my back. “Look, Ms. Shapiro, I hope this won’t take too long. I have a few errands to run today.”

“I’ll try to keep it brief. And I thought you were going to call me Desiree.”

“Okay, and you can call me Mr. Hearn.” Then he laughed. “Just kidding. It’s David.”

The kitchen table was set with my favorite place mats—black-and-white checks to match the black-and-white-checked floor tiles. The napkins were white with black piping. And tying it all together was the pièce de résistance: my new black china. Of which—notwithstanding the insistence of my neighbor Barbara about there being something very unsanitary about black china—I am inordinately proud.

David took a seat while I attended to some last-minute preparations. Fortunately, when I’d extended
that lunch invitation there was an Italian bread in the freezer, some Genoa salami, tomato, and Swiss cheese in the refrigerator, and a jar of roasted red peppers on the shelf. I’d prepared the open sandwiches close to two hours ago, so all I had to do now was toast them for a few minutes. In the meantime, I got out the potato salad, cole slaw, and Coke I’d run down to the deli for earlier. Pretty soon I joined David at the table.

“This is really delicious,” he said after a large bite of the sandwich. He sounded as if he hadn’t expected it to be.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“What did you want to ask me about?”

Now, I couldn’t see ruining a tasty little repast with business. Which I think is particularly understandable when you consider the kind of business I’m in. “Why don’t we hold off until we’re through eating?”

“Good idea. I’m not in
that
much of a hurry,” he agreed, grinning.

We engaged in some small talk after this. I learned that David was a graduate of Yale University and Harvard Law School, that he had recently passed the bar after his second attempt, and that he was presently working for the Manhattan DA’s Office.

Then it was David’s turn to ask questions. And the first thing he wanted to know was how long I’d been a PI. This being some indication of my age, I chopped off a year or two—okay, five—from my answer. A short while later he wondered aloud about how a husband might react to his wife’s choosing an occupation like mine for a career. I couldn’t speak for anyone else, I told him, but in my case it had been no problem at all. My late husband Ed had been a private investigator, too.

We continued chatting through dessert—a Sara Lee cheesecake that had briefly resided in my freezer directly under the Italian bread. David turned down my
infamous coffee, however, with a polite request for tea, making him either a very lucky young man or positively prescient. I’m not sure which.

“I understand that you were actually related to Bella, Uncle Victor’s wife,” I began after we had relocated to the living room. We were seated facing each other, me on the sofa, David in one of my two matching club chairs.

“That’s right. She was a sweet woman, too—I was very fond of her. And by the way, Aunt Bella wasn’t my aunt; she was my mother’s aunt. Which made her my great-aunt.”

“Hmm. That’s a little different, isn’t it?” I remarked.

“What do you mean—different?”

“Weren’t the others mentioned in the will just plain nephews and a niece?”

“That’s right. And you’re curious as to why my mother isn’t the one in line to inherit, is that it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Both Aunt Bella and Uncle Victor had some problems concerning my father. Mostly because of his . . . uh . . . his financial misadventures.”

“Are you saying he was an
embezzler
?” It just slipped out.

David took the mindless response good-naturedly. “Not quite,” he told me with this little laugh that, to my ears, sounded uncomfortably close to a giggle. “See? Let that be a lesson to you, Desiree. When someone tries to equivocate like that, things usually end up appearing to be worse than they really are.”

“Would you care to clarify that?”

“Okay. I’ll level with you. I think Uncle Victor was worried that if my mother should by some small chance wind up his heir, my dad would just gamble the money away.”

“Uh, your father’s a gambler, then?” I asked—speaking cautiously this time.

“
Was.
He hasn’t placed a bet in over five years. But I don’t think my parents have ever been able to convince Great-uncle Victor of that.”

“Incidentally, what sort of man
is
Great-uncle Victor?”

“He’s a helluva guy. He was an absolutely brilliant businessman—a self-made multimillionaire. But I admire him even more for the kind of human being he is. Actually,” David said thoughtfully, “Victor Lander is one of the most decent, caring people you’d ever want to meet. And very family-oriented. You can go to him with almost any kind of problem; he’s never too busy to help you deal with it. And whenever there’ve been disagreements among the relatives, Uncle Victor has somehow managed to get them to consider one another’s point of view. He seems to have a genuine knack for that type of thing.

“He’s also generous. The man paid for my college and law school. And from what I gather, over the years he’s done a good deal for other family members, too. I do know that he used to bail my father out of trouble—money trouble—on a pretty frequent basis. Which, since my father hasn’t put the bite on him for so long, should probably have made it apparent that Dad’s reformed. But I guess his past performance gave Uncle Victor reason to be skeptical of that.

“And speaking of my great-uncle’s generosity, it would have been nice if he’d chosen to distribute the wealth a little more evenly.” David managed a faint chuckle before adding soberly, “I can understand why Edward was his principal beneficiary. But what I can’t figure out is why the bulk of Uncle Victor’s assets will be going to your client now, with the rest of us only getting a few crumbs. Even worse—from my point of view, at any rate—if something happens to
him,
those snotty Riley twins hit pay dirt. Then
finally,
on the bottom rung of the ladder, there’s you-know-who.”