Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (22 page)

“I certainly do.”

“Okay, so we got our hands on photos of Lander and Sara Sharp and began showing them around the neighborhood of the pottery school. Both the owner and a waitress at one of the coffee shops down there positively identified the two of them. Said they’d come in a number of times.

“Now, add the affair to the money motive and the
wings, and I’d say things were looking damn good for Lander—or damn bad, depending on where you’re sitting. Incidentally, we may soon have another piece of evidence against the guy.

“The night of the shooting we found some brown hairs not far from the body. Well, Mrs. Sharp’s a blonde, and the victim was almost completely gray. Of course, the hairs could have belonged to almost anyone else, but they could also have come from the killer. So the gun wasn’t the only thing we were after when we searched the Lander place.

“At any rate, even though the weapon was no longer in Lander’s possession by then, at least we didn’t walk out of that apartment empty-handed. We took a few samples from that son of a bitch’s hairbrush. And while we haven’t gotten the DNA back yet, it wouldn’t surprise me if it matches the DNA of the hairs at the crime scene.”

“Well, suppose it does. You still wouldn’t have indicted my client if you hadn’t been able to turn up the gun.” It was half question, half statement.

“That sort of thing isn’t my call. But without that baby the case against John Lander would be pretty iffy. Look, the DA made the point that Lander could claim that in an attempt to frame him for the shooting, the hairs had been taken off his jacket and planted at the victim’s apartment, just like the wings. Now that we have the weapon, though, everyone’s feeling confident—real confident—about the chances of a conviction.”

“Thank God you found it,” I murmured.

“
We
found it,” Fielding maintained gallantly. A moment later he took a final sip of coffee, then put down the cup and regarded me solemnly. “Oh, by the way, there’s one thing I’d like you to do for me.”

“What’s that?”

“I imagine it must be force of habit, Shapiro. But please. Stop referring to that rotten scuzzball as your client.”

Five days after my lunch with Fielding, Uncle Victor died at his home. They say he went peacefully, in his sleep. He expired without ever learning that his favorite nephew had been murdered—or that another of his nephews had been the executioner.

So the old man’s will was never changed.

Apparently, however, it’s against the law for a convicted felon to inherit—and I can’t imagine that John
won’t
be convicted. But as to who
is
entitled to those megabucks, this appears to be sort of muddled.

I’ve already spoken to three different attorneys regarding the disposition of that money—and received three different responses. One lawyer was of the opinion the windfall would pass to the person or persons next in line according to the terms of Victor’s will—in other words, the twins. A second refused to even venture a guess. And a third felt it was likely that the family of the victim would benefit from John Lander’s handiwork.

And while we’re on the subject of the victim’s family, Sara called me when she heard about the arrest. At first she had a great deal of difficulty coming to grips with the fact that John was her husband’s killer. Then when she finally accepted the truth, she was inconsolable, insisting that she was as much to blame for what had transpired as her former lover was.

“My affair with John led to Edward’s death,” Sara
insisted. “If I hadn’t . . . hadn’t done what I did, my husband would be alive today.”

I tried to convince her that Edward became a potential target the instant he was named his uncle’s principal beneficiary. But although she eventually calmed down, I think it was because the woman had worn herself out. Not because she bought into my argument—one I wasn’t even certain I believed myself.

At any rate, if she does come into that bundle, I doubt that Sara Sharp will be able to derive any pleasure from it. At least, not for a very long while.

As for Victor’s other relatives, the only one to contact me aside from Sara was Scott Riley, who phoned for the gory details—doubtless the very second he got the news.

“Well?” he challenged in that prissy manner of his. “Who warned you from the get-go that John was the culprit? Tell me that, Desiree.” I was all set to remind him that he’d also suspected David Hearn for a time, but he sailed right into his interrogation.

How did it feel to discover that my own client was the individual I’d been seeking all along? (I could picture Scott smirking and rubbing his hands together as he put this to me.) Had I ever had any suspicions at all about John? What evidence did the police have against John? And then my absolute favorite: Was it true what everyone was saying? Did John Lander
really
attempt to drown me at Jones Beach?

My answers were terse and honest—for the most part, that is. “Lousy.” “Only toward the very end.” “I’m not at liberty to say.” Even my handling of that last, off-the-wall question was—if you’ll grant me a bit of a stretch—not untruthful. Although I admit that I wasn’t above playing a kind of head game with that insufferable little snot.

I began by making him endure an extended pause. After which I went into my histrionics. “Oh, dear. How did you happen to—?” A shorter pause. Then, with a
throb in my voice: “Please, Scott, swear to me you won’t mention that again—to
anybody
.”

Well, you couldn’t call this a lie, could you?

Anyhow, immediately following Scott’s promise to me (a promise I was sure would be in effect only for the duration of our conversation), he seemed pleased at being the first to inform me that Trudie Lander was considering joining a nunnery. Which, from my knowledge of that lady, I can state unequivocally had about as much validity as the Jones Beach rumor.

Right before the call ended, Scott griped about his sister and David Hearn continuing to be an item. Which did not make me any too happy, either. Let’s say Shawna
did
get half of Uncle Victor’s estate; I still hated to think of anyone as likable as David being saddled with someone like
her
. I mean, I could certainly find him a girl who was a lot better suited to him. Maybe when he and Shawna broke up—I try to think positively—I’d introduce him to this young lawyer who sometimes stops in at the office to see Pat Sullivan (you know, of Gilbert and Sullivan). She’s Pat’s niece, I believe, and she’s charming and very attractive. Well, except for her teeth. But then, David has a very good dentist.

Closer to home, things have been pretty uneventful lately—although considering recent occurrences, I don’t suppose I should knock “uneventful.” But just to bring you up to date, Jackie’s still on speaking terms with Derwin. Pop—thank heaven—continues to see that Florida divorcée. And my nervous Nellie of a niece persists in conjuring up one wedding-related crisis after another—and manages to survive them all.

As for me, I was involved in a brief investigation a couple of weeks back—a runaway teenager who I was fortunate in tracking down in Pennsylvania, unharmed. Since then, though, I’ve been, as we say in the theatuh, “between engagements.”

Of a more personal nature, only the other night Nick Grainger and I had an unexpected meeting in the laundry room.

I was just taking my stuff out of the dryer when he walked in. Once again that short, bony frame and those sexy buck teeth turned my knees to jelly.

He greeted me pleasantly, and then looking uncomfortable, he said, “I . . . uh . . . wonder if you’d do me a favor. I was using that same dryer about an hour ago, and it’s possible something of mine may be mixed in with what you have there. Do you . . . would you mind checking?”

“Of course not.” I set the load down on the folding table—and immediately spied the white silk boxers with the red hearts all over them. Clearly an item not my own.

“Would these be what you’re referring to?” I asked, extending the shorts between my thumb and forefinger.

Nick, his face now redder than those red hearts, practically grabbed for the things, quickly tucking them under his arm in a not entirely successful attempt to conceal the source of his embarrassment. “A friend gave these to me as a gag, years ago,” he mumbled with a pathetic try for a grin.

Well, the print
was
kind of faded, and the shorts
did
look a bit frayed. And what was past was past.

Quite uncharacteristically, therefore, I decided not to waste any energy speculating about the donor, opting instead to regard the commingling of our laundry as a
sign
.

I don’t suppose I should count on it, though, my intuition being what it is.

So, like Uncle Victor’s fortune, where this goes from here is really anybody’s guess. . . .

Desiree’s Orange Chicken with Almonds

2 tbs. slivered almonds

small amount of butter

¹
⁄
₃
cup orange juice

2 tsp. honey

1 tbs. soy sauce

1 tsp. grated fresh ginger

1
¹
⁄
₂
tsp. arrowroot or cornstarch

2 tsp. vegetable oil

2 cloves of garlic, minced

2 tbs. sliced scallions, white part only

¹
⁄
₂
tbs. fresh orange peel, slivered

1 lb. chicken breast, boned and skinned, cut into 1
″ ×
2
¹
⁄
₂
″
pieces

salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

1
¹
⁄
₂
tbs. chopped scallions, green part only

Sauté almonds in butter until lightly browned. Drain on paper towels and set aside. Whisk next 5 ingredients in a small bowl until mixture is smooth and set aside. Over high flame, heat oil in wok or large skillet. Add garlic, white part of scallions, and orange peel. Stir-fry one minute. Add chicken and stir-fry until chicken loses its pink color—about 3 minutes. Stir orange-juice mixture and add to wok. Stir-fry until liquid has thickened and chicken is cooked through. Season with salt and pepper; then add green part of scallions. Sprinkle with slivered almonds.

Recipe serves 2 generously and can be doubled.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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