Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (21 page)

The first thing I did when I got back in the car was to check my map of New York State. Which would have given anyone who knows me a really good laugh.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been advised that anyone with half a brain should be able to read one of those things. But apparently I’m missing that half. Anyhow, after a couple of minutes of trying to make sense of all those dark red lines and light red lines and blue lines and blue squares and I can’t remember what else, I shoved the map back in the glove compartment and headed for the nearest gas station.

I was informed that it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to reach Cobblestone Lake. But in spite of Chuck’s best efforts—he was the gas station attendant—I managed to keep getting lost, so I wound up traveling for closer to four. And I’m not even counting the twenty minutes or so I spent in the Swell Eats Diner on the way to the place.

Well, one thing about being alone in a vehicle for an extended period like that: you have a whole lot of time to think. And that’s what I did. And at long last I got a handle on some crucial elements of the case.

I began by examining the startling fact I’d discovered only a short while before, during my talk with Eloise. I’m referring to what John knew of my background. As you’re aware, once he’d manufactured that attempted shooting, Trudie tried to steamroll him into
bringing in a private investigator. But John recognized that having a professional look into the events of the past couple of weeks could prove disastrous for him. So in spite of what must have been almost unbearable pressure from that harridan he was married to, he held firm for a few days.

Then Eloise told him about one Desiree Shapiro. He must have regarded me as the answer to a prayer—and, unfortunately, I say this in all modesty.

Listen, not only could I boast of having been employed to hunt for somebody’s pet boa constrictor, but that sort of thing was actually my “
specialty
.” So what were the odds of someone with my credentials posing a threat to a clever fellow like John?

Not only that. I have a feeling the man decided that I could prove useful with regard to the missing Air Force wings, which he very much feared had come off at the crime scene. I mean, he realized that it might be helpful (which it wasn’t) if I were to relate to the police that even before they found that pin in Edward’s apartment, my client had begun to suspect that someone might have planted it there.

Anyway, you can see that there isn’t really much doubt about it. John Lander hadn’t come to me because I had the best chance of uncovering the perpetrator, but because he figured I had the best chance
not to
.

Hardly an ego-booster.

I switched on the radio after that, just so I could relax for a bit. But before long, I was back to ruminating about the investigation—I couldn’t seem to stop myself. And pretty soon I was ready to abandon the idea of driving to Cobblestone Lake in favor of kicking myself all the way up there instead.

The thing is, I’d been so-o-o perplexed over the fact that Sara Sharp’s lover had murdered Edward before he inherited—thereby preventing Sara from becoming an extremely wealthy widow.

Well,
I demanded of myself now,
why hadn’t it occurred to me that there was one person who wouldn’t have derived the slightest benefit from postponing the shooting?
I’m referring, of course, to the individual who was next in line for the money.

This thought quickly led to another. John’s affair with Sara could also explain why he hadn’t rid himself of Trudie ages ago. Evidently, financial gain alone hadn’t been enough of a motivation for him to commit murder. But then he discovers this grand passion for his cousin’s wife. And
that,
coupled with the windfall that would accrue to him if Edward went bye-bye, had evidently proved too strong a magnet for someone of my client’s character to resist.

It was close to five when, after more wrong turns and missed signs than I can estimate, I arrived in Cobblestone Lake—where I had to obtain further instructions from another kindly service station attendant. Obviously assessing my intelligence, this one even felt it advisable to jot down the very simple directions. At any rate, two traffic lights later I made a right off Liberty Avenue, the town’s main thoroughfare, onto a gravel road. The next quick right and I was on the dirt lane that marked the entrance to Holbrook Estates. The endless trip had finally come to an end.

The homes here—there were about two dozen of them—were set quite far back on the tract and appeared to be in various stages of completion.

Driving closer to the construction, I spotted a level area that was evidently functioning as a parking lot. Approximately fifty feet from the first of the houses, it was occupied by a beat-up pickup truck and two fairly new-model convertibles. My Chevy joined them. On getting out of the car, I noted absently that there were only a couple of workmen around, both at the
far end of the development. Well, I reminded myself, it was late afternoon. And it was a Friday.

Anyhow, once I was faced with proceeding on foot, I realized how poorly prepared I was for this little adventure of mine. With remarkable absence of foresight, I’d elected to put on a pair of high heels that I have difficulty walking in under favorable conditions. But today, thanks to all that recent rain, I was sinking into the wet earth and pitching so far forward that there was an excellent possibility I’d soon be horizontal.

I was so intent on keeping my balance as I made for the dwellings that I paid very little attention to the other car that was pulling into the lot from the rear. Or to the fact that it was a Range Rover.

I’d covered all of about two yards when I heard a squishing sound. I turned. And eight or nine feet behind me John Lander stopped dead in his tracks.

This was a John Lander I hardly recognized. That amiable and fair-minded fellow I once knew now had the face of an extremely dangerous man. And I’m not being melodramatic, either. Our eyes made contact for an instant—his had narrowed to mere slivers—but neither of us said a word.

I tried to run. Only between the mud and the shoes and a long-standing disinclination to subject my limbs to any exertion, I had little hope of eluding my pursuer. I knew for a certainty that he was moving quickly—and closing the gap fast.

Then two things happened. John attempted to tackle me—at the precise moment I lost my footing. The result was that I landed facedown in the mud and John, with nothing but air to connect to, did the same, winding up right behind me.

I believe the wind must have been knocked out of him, because for a moment he lay there, unmoving. Well, being built a lot closer to the ground than John
is—and, consequently, not having had nearly as far to fall—I was relatively unscathed. Almost at once I was able to roll onto my back (although with great difficulty) and push myself up on my elbows (with even more difficulty). Leaning over now, I gathered up all of my not-very-impressive strength and whacked that dirty rotten creep full force on the head with the one lethal weapon I’m never without: my handbag.

The combined impact of the flashlight, cell phone, bottled water, stapler, cough medicine, etc. , etc. , was enough to knock him out cold.

Struggling to my feet, I made it to my Chevy, only to realize that I was too shaken to drive.

I locked the doors and windows and, my eyes riveted to a still-prone John, got out my .32, which that morning I’d thought it might be prudent to carry today. But then—wouldn’t you know it?—I had left the gun in the glove compartment.

I placed it in my lap. After which I got out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

Within five or ten minutes a tall, beefy state trooper was tapping on the windshield. Rolling down the window, I handed him my PI license before explaining that a client of mine had just attacked me and that I’d struck him with my pocketbook in self-defense. The man seemed to find this amusing, not even attempting to conceal a smirk as I pointed to the figure on the ground.

I watched intently as the trooper, who had just been joined by a second officer, hurried over to John. They both knelt beside him, and while I couldn’t see exactly what was going on, I assumed they were checking his vital signs.

It wasn’t long before trooper number one returned to talk to me.

“You’re a very lucky lady,” he said. “Were you aware that this guy had a knife in his hand?”

I gulped, then shook my head. “Umm . . . I didn’t kill him, did I?”

The trooper was smiling in encouragement. “He’s coming to now. So the answer’s no.”

“That’s too bad,” I mumbled—right before I fainted.

John Lander was arrested for assault immediately following that terrifying confrontation at Cobblestone Lake. Six days later he was finally indicted for the murder of his cousin Edward.

My old friend Fielding and I had had a number of brief telephone conversations in the interim. Then a few days after the homicide indictment he took me to lunch at the Palm, a wonderful scarred-wood-floor, no-frills, guy-type steakhouse in the East Forties. Evidently this was a thank-you for my contribution to John’s finally winding up where he belonged. In addition, Fielding seemed anxious to compare notes—
and
have the opportunity to bawl me out for what he considered my thoroughly irresponsible behavior.

Even before our shrimp cocktails, we started to rehash the case that had until recently occupied center stage in both our lives. The postmortem continued through our sirloins and mashed potatoes, extending well into the cheesecake and coffee. Now, as you’re well aware, normally I’d have preferred to wait until we were through eating before entering into a discussion on things like murder and attempted murder—particularly when that attempt had been on my person. In this instance, however, we were talking about an evil, manipulative scum’s being brought to justice. Which, if anything, acted as a flavor enhancer.

Of course, I wasn’t crazy about Fielding’s kicking
things off with a lecture. “Whatever possessed you to go to that development alone like that? You should know better.”

“I do. Honestly, Tim. But when at long last I figured out that it was my client who killed Edward Sharp, I was just so anxious to help you apprehend him.” Fielding raised both eyebrows at that one. “And as I said on the phone, I had this vague notion that he might have buried the gun up there. But I saw it as a real long shot, I swear. Besides, I took precautions.”

“Yeah? Well, go on. What’s your idea of ‘precautions’?”

“Number one: I had my gun with me.”

“So I understand. And then you proceeded to leave it in the glove compartment of your car, where it was absolutely useless.”

I could feel my cheeks burn. “I admit that was careless. But there was no real reason to anticipate any trouble. Which brings me to precaution number two: I only went to Brooklyn Heights that morning once Eloise—John’s secretary—informed me that he wasn’t expected until two o’clock. And number three, I got her to agree not to mention to him that I’d been there. Of course,” I grumbled, “she turned out to be quite a stand-up little girl. As soon as John starts questioning her, she rolls over and gives me away, obviously spilling a lot more than was necessary.”

Fielding clucked in mock sympathy. “You have every reason to be pissed. She owed you her allegiance on the basis of your close, long-standing friendship.” And now he regarded me sternly. “Listen, Shapiro, you can’t afford to bank on everybody’s behaving according to your script. Something else you ought to have discovered way back.”

“You’re right,” I responded meekly.

I should mention that by then both Tim and I had learned that John’s last appointment that day had been canceled and that he spotted me walking out of
the building when he unexpectedly returned to his office.

“Anyhow,” I continued, “I realize that I could have worked things out a little better. But when I finally recognized my client for what he was, I reacted viscerally. I mean, I got mad as hell—probably as much at myself as at him. God! What a wonderful judge of character I’m not! I believed he was
such
a decent person.”

“That’s what you get for not paying attention to your uncle Tim,” Fielding teased. Then he noticed the look on my face. “Listen, Lander was good, really convincing. If we didn’t have what we did on him, I might have bought into his act myself.”

“I doubt it. I am
such
a patsy.”

“Will you cut it out? Anybody can be fooled, and you know why? Because nobody really knows another human being.”

“Thanks,” I said, touched by this attempt to console me. It was a side of Tim I didn’t see very often.

“There’s something I’m a little uncertain of,” he brought up at this point. “As I recall, when we talked the other day you told me that during that entire two-hour trip upstate, you didn’t have even the slightest suspicion you were being followed. Did I get that straight?”

I couldn’t see any reason for apprising him that the drive had taken almost twice as long. “Yes, you did.” And then in an attempt to erase his nonplussed expression I added, “I’d never laid eyes on that car before, though. The one time John had given me a lift it was in a black sedan.” I also didn’t feel it was important for Fielding to know I was aware that John owned a Range Rover, as well.

“Let me ask you this,” he said, moving on. “What gave you the idea that Lander might have ditched his gun at that development in the first place?”

“I keep trying to make you understand, Tim. It wasn’t that I actually
thought
—”

“Yeah, yeah. I stand corrected.” And in a voice dripping with sarcasm: “I’ll rephrase that. What made you entertain the extremely vague possibility that the man could have disposed of his weapon at Holbrook Estates?”

“I don’t really know,” I answered, ignoring the tone. “No, I take that back. I guess I do. The thing is, I’d tried reaching John at his office one day, and Eloise told me he was at a construction site. This was before I finally concluded that it was my own damn client who’d blasted Sharp.

“Anyhow, once I hit on the truth, it occurred to me that the gun had never been found; otherwise, by then John would have been charged with the crime. The other thing I figured was that it had still been in his possession on the night someone supposedly took a shot at him. After all, he had to assume that you’d try to find the bullet, so it would have made sense for him to actually fire the weapon.” I looked at Fielding for confirmation.

He interpreted the look correctly. “He did fire it, and we located the bullet in some hedges. That bullet—along with the one in Edward Sharp’s chest—came from the 9-millimeter semiautomatic we’ve since recovered. Which, as you already know, is registered to a fellow named John Lander. By the way, you
were
aware that our boy owned one of those babies, weren’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, no.”

“Why am I not surprised that he didn’t share this with you?” Fielding remarked cynically. “Evidently Lander owned a jewelry store at some point, and after being robbed twice, he got the weapon for protection. Naturally, he insists it was stolen years ago—although he never bothered to file a report to that effect. But as you were saying . . .”

“What
was
I saying? Oh, I remember. By the time my upstanding client resorted to staging that phony shooting, things had become kind of hot for him, so it would have been really foolhardy to continue hanging on to the gun.
I
figured that
John
figured he’d better dump it.
But where?
I asked myself.

“It seemed doubtful to me that he’d discharge the weapon right in front of his home and then immediately hop into his car so he could fling it into the Hudson River or someplace. What if someone noticed him take off like that? Besides, that Wednesday breakfast slipup of his must have wised John up fast; he started playing things pretty cagey from then on. And for the victim of an attempted homicide—as John professed to be—the natural thing to do would be to rush into his building. Maybe ask the doorman if he’d seen or heard anything, too.”

“Which is what our guy did,” Fielding put in. “We checked.”

“At any rate, I believe it’s likely that John had the gun in his briefcase the next morning when he and Trudie went to speak to you about the alleged attack.” Tim scowled. For some reason even the thought of this appeared to irritate him. “Or maybe,” I amended, “he’d concealed it in his car. I had reservations, though, about his attempting to ditch it in a crowded city in broad daylight.
That’s
when I recalled Eloise’s mention of a construction site. In his business, I reasoned, John must have frequently spent time at new developments. And just think about it, Tim. You bury the evidence in the ground right before the house is erected, following which it gets covered with a few tons of cement or whatever they use. And then—look, Ma!—I’m clean.”

Fielding stroked his chin. “So you went to Lander’s office that Friday to interrogate his secretary as to whether on the day after the staged attack he’d been at a location that would fill the bill.”

“Exactly. At that juncture he must have been itching to lose the murder weapon. Still,” I emphasized, “I only talked to the girl on the off chance that he
might
have visited some sort of construction on the heels of his little stunt.”

“All right, but tell me this, Shapiro. What were you supposed to accomplish up at that place, anyhow? Did you plan on digging for the gun with your fingers?”

“Don’t be such a wise guy. I was just checking things out. I wanted to satisfy myself that there was even a possibility that my client had chucked it there.”

“And how did you plan on determining this?”

“Look, if the homes were already at the wallpapering stage, I’d have taken this as a fairly good indication that I was barking up the wrong tree.” And now I put down my fork and leaned back in the seat. “It turned out I hit pay dirt, though,” I proclaimed, smiling smugly.

Fielding also put down his fork and leaned back in the seat. “Well, not quite,” he said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems all the foundations had already been put in by the time Lander elected to dispose of the gun. Naturally, we had the area thoroughly searched anyway, with the assistance of the law-enforcement people up there. Nothing doing, though.”

“But I assumed—” Confused, I broke off. “So where—”

“Hey, us dumb cops can have a productive thought, too, on rare occasions. The name of that town is what, Shapiro?”

“Cobblestone Lake. But how does that—” I stopped abruptly, having just answered my own unfinished question.

“You got it. The lake itself isn’t very big, but it’s only a few miles from Holbrook Estates and in a pretty isolated spot. Not a bad choice for unburdening yourself of a hot piece of property if you happen to
be in that neck of the woods. Anyway, we had a team of divers go down and have a look around. And on the second day—whaddaya know? We discovered that this is just where that little sucker had been hiding.”

“Then I was actually way off base,” I pouted childishly.

Tim reached across the booth and playfully punched me in the arm. “Are you kidding? If not for you, who can say if we’d ever have wound up with that gun—in fact, we probably wouldn’t have. Besides, you’d have thought of the lake yourself. Even old Johnny Boy was fairly certain of that.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Listen, considering his actions that afternoon, he must have been damn spooked by your going to that development. He obviously realized that if you could figure out Holbrook Estates, it wouldn’t be long before it dawned on you that right nearby was another handy receptacle for incriminating evidence.”

Suddenly my dear friend (and sometime antagonist) was glaring at me. “Which is not to say you made any use of the sense you were born with when you hotfooted it up there the way you did. You came
that close
to getting your throat slit, for crissakes. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who’s always mouthing off about our sharing, right? Well, there couldn’t have been a better time for it. But no, you went and—”

“Believe me, I had every intention of going to you with this if I decided it was a viable location.” And now, since it looked like this dressing-down Fielding was treating me to might still have legs, I concluded that it would be an ideal moment to pose a question of my own.

“I have to know something, Tim. Why were you so positive all along that my client was the perp—aside from the inheritance business and finding those wings at the crime scene, that is.”

“ ‘
Aside,
’ did you say? Listen, Desiree, I wouldn’t call either of those things exactly irrelevant. And I seriously doubt if
you
would—if the guy hadn’t been your own client. But as it happens, there was more. Early on in the investigation Norm and I had a conversation with the Sharp housekeeper.”

“I didn’t even know there
was
a housekeeper.”

“She comes in a couple of days a month. At any rate, the woman—a Mrs. Clavell—could hardly wait to engage in a little gossip, and she provided us with what turned out to be a very interesting lead. Apparently she’d overheard Sara Sharp arranging to meet someone after class this one week. Sara sounded very cozy with whoever was on the other end of the line, too. According to Mrs. Clavell, that is—who, incidentally, claims that even before this she was all but certain her employer had a lover.”

“How did she come up with that?”

“Evidently this housekeeper is better than a lie detector—she insists that she can tell just by looking at a person’s complexion if they’re engaging in a little hanky-panky. The truth is, Norm and I had her pegged as something of a cuckoo bird. Still, we felt it might be worthwhile to follow up and see if, in addition to everything else, our number one suspect was Mrs. Sharp’s paramour.”

“Paramour?”
I echoed with a smirk.

Fielding chuckled. “It’s Norm’s word, but I’ve gotten kind of fond of it myself. Say, do you want me to fill you in on the rest of this or not?”