Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (4 page)

“I don’t know if you’d call him a friend. We shared the elevator.”

“Where would you like to go so we can talk? Are you hungry?”

“Not really. But I wouldn’t mind a soda.”

“We could stop off someplace in this area,” John proposed, “or we could drive over to your home turf—my car’s parked only a few blocks away.”

“As long as you managed to find a space, let’s do it around here.”

Neither of us was that familiar with the neighborhood, so we began to walk, and for once, I actually enjoyed traveling via my two feet. The rain that had been forecast earlier must have carried out its threat sometime during my visit with Shawna, because the pavement was wet. But the late-afternoon sun was out now, and the air smelled fresh and clean and springlike.

It must have been about five minutes later that we came upon a small coffee shop on Fifty-third and Sixth. John and I both peered through the window.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Perfect,” I told him.

The inside of the place was cheerful and immaculate, with yellow-and-white-checked cotton tablecloths covered in clear plastic and real cloth napkins. Once we were seated, John prevailed upon me to have some food with my Coke. Which didn’t take all that much prevailing, particularly in view of the pleasant surroundings. We both decided on a cheeseburger and french fries.

Now, as I may have mentioned, I prefer waiting until after my meal before going into any big discussions. But this time I didn’t really have that option. John evidently had something pressing on his mind. Moreover, I was very anxious to hear it.

As soon as we gave the waitress our order, he began. And there was a somberness in his voice. “When I tried reaching you intially, there was one thing I wanted to discuss with you. In the meantime, though, something else has happened. And now there are two matters we ought to go over.”

Uh-oh.

“Hey, don’t look so worried. I’m sure things’ll work out.” He leaned over and patted my hand. “But
anyhow, to start with, I’m convinced Trudie’s right about the police suspecting me of murdering Edward. Only maybe it’s not merely because I have the most obvious motive.”

“What don’t I know?”

The explanation was delivered with unmistakable reluctance. “I have this lapel pin—or at least I did have. My Air Force wings. I was wearing it on that day the family gathered at Uncle Victor’s. But weeks later, when I went to put on that same jacket at home, the pin was gone. I was sure I hadn’t removed it so I called my uncle the next morning, and he said he’d have the household staff look around for it. It never turned up, though. I was upset, of course, but just because of the sentiment involved. In the light of what’s transpired since then, however, I’ve arrived at this peculiar—or maybe I should say
sinister
—theory.” And now he added sheepishly, “When you hear it, you’ll probably decide that I should be committed.”

John was looking at me for reassurance, and although I was totally in the dark as to what was involved here, how could I not encourage him? “I seriously doubt that.”

“It didn’t occur to me right away—not until this past week. And believe me, it’s hard for me to accept that this might be the case. The truth is, it’s really the kind of notion I’d have expected Trudie to come up with. Since she hasn’t, it’s most likely because the idea doesn’t have any validity.”

“Uh, maybe you should just lay things out for me.”

He flushed. “I
have
been a little obscure, haven’t I? All right. Suppose that I did lose the pin at Uncle Victor’s and one of the others picked it up. Or, it’s even possible someone took it off my jacket. You see, we wound up spending a good part of that afternoon out of doors. So early on I hung the jacket in the closet, where anyone could have gotten at it. I—”

Our burgers arrived at this juncture, and John
waited until the waitress walked away before resuming.

“I want you to understand that none of this so much as entered my mind until after someone took a shot at me. The NYPD’s reaction to that, though—well, this is when it became clear that I was the star suspect in my cousin’s murder. And then on Wednesday, I think it was, I got this gut feeling that perhaps it wasn’t just my having so much to gain by Edward’s death that had earned me such an exalted position. Anyhow, I imagine you can figure out where I’m going with this, can’t you?”

“More or less,” I lied. “But why don’t you tell me about it from your point of view?”

“I believe that someone may have planted my wings at the scene to implicate me in Edward’s murder.” His forehead pleated up. “
But who?
I keep asking myself:
Scott? Shawna? David?
These are all decent people we’re talking about. The problem, however, is that no matter how much I want to and how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake the notion that I’ve been set up. Which is probably the main reason I called you in on this originally.” And here John’s eyes locked into mine. “Do you think I’m being paranoid about that pin, Desiree?”

“No, I definitely do not.” What I was, in fact, thinking was
How can you be so slow-witted?
Only I wasn’t referring to my client. After all, the minute I heard about the missing wings an alarm should have gone off in my head. Particularly since I was aware of the police’s reluctance to accept that John Lander had been only inches away from becoming the late John Lander.

“The night you were shot at,” I said, “I gather there weren’t any witnesses.”

“None.”
How much simpler it was to put a question to John today—when he could actually be the one to answer it.
“I didn’t spot another soul on the street,”
he expanded. “There was certainly no one close enough to notice what transpired. We have a doorman in our building, but just before you get to the walkway that leads to the entrance, there are these high hedges. And the thing is, I hadn’t yet reached the walkway, so even if the doorman was standing with his nose pressed right up against the glass door, he wouldn’t have been able to see anything.”

“Your cousin’s killer had evidently launched phase two,” I mused.

“Phase two?”

“Look, in spite of his or her efforts, the police haven’t been that quick to arrest you, although if the pin
was
found at Edward’s, you’ve no doubt been identified as the owner by now. Incidentally, they haven’t questioned
you
about it—have they?” John shook his head. “Anyhow, the fact that you haven’t been taken into custody apparently made our murderer impatient enough to try to dispose of you in another way. What I mean is, whoever we’re dealing with was worried that you might not go down for Edward’s murder—thereby, of course, losing out on the inheritance. So he elected to ensure that you forfeited it by not being around to collect.”

“Uh, speaking of my not being around, that was the other matter I thought I should mention to you. But please, not a word to Trudie, okay? Not about anything we’ve discussed today.”

“You don’t have to be concerned about that,” I answered, my mouth going dry in anticipation of what might follow.

“That attempt on my life wasn’t a onetime thing, Desiree. I had another close call when I went out to lunch this afternoon—around twelve-thirty, it must have been. I was crossing the street in front of my office when out of the corner of my eye I saw this speeding car. It seemed to come from nowhere—and it was heading straight at me.”

“Oh, my God,” I murmured.

“If I hadn’t reacted in just a split second and jumped out of the way, I’d have been roadkill by now.”

I was shaken. So much so that I even laid down my burger—and it was really tasty, too. It took me a few moments to compose myself. “Listen, John,” I finally managed, “I may not be the person you should have working for you on this. What I’m getting at is that it might be advisable for you to bring in an investigator who is able to provide you with protection. I can give you a few names. The truth is, I probably should have recommended this to you yesterday.”

“It wouldn’t have done you any good. I wouldn’t even have considered it. I need someone capable of unraveling this mess, and that’s you, Desiree.”

“I’m gratified by your confidence. But how can we be positive, either of us, that I’ll succeed? And if I do—when? And in the meantime, something terrible could happen.”

“I will not get myself a bodyguard—period. I can’t live like that. So let’s change the subject.”

What a foolish, stubborn man!
Well, it was obvious that I wasn’t going to budge him, so with a great deal of reluctance, I backed off. “I don’t suppose you saw who was driving the car? Or that you got the license plate number?” I inquired, after which I picked up the cheeseburger again and allowed myself a couple of quick bites.

John shook his head. “It was all so fast.”

“What about the make of the car? The color?”

“I couldn’t tell you the make—I don’t have much of an interest in automobiles. To me, they’re just a means of getting you where you want to go. All I know is that it was large, perhaps a Chrysler. I’m not even certain of the color, but I believe it was black. Listen, I should probably have more sense than to admit this, but once that car was safely past me, I
didn’t so much as glance in its direction. I just stood there for a while, quivering.” John smiled weakly. “I must sound like an awful wimp to you.”

“You absolutely do not. I probably would have fainted.” I said it jokingly, and John chuckled. But I’m sure you’re familiar with that old adage about many a true word’s being said in jest. The fact is, I
have
been known to pass out after surviving a frightening experience. There was one time, however, when my yellow streak actually turned out to be a plus. In that instance, who was on hand to minister to me as I lay there, out cold, in the lobby of this apartment building, but an attractive young doctor. And once I verified that he was unattached—practically the first thing I did when I opened my eyes was to check his ring finger—it was only a question of time before I bullied Dr. Mike Lynton and my niece Ellen Kravitz, both of them kicking and screaming, into agreeing to one of those dreaded blind dates. So, really, it’s thanks to my cowardice that I’ll be attending a wedding at the Plaza in December.

But, anyhow, you can see that I have personal knowledge of wimpishness.

“I hope there was a witness this time,” I told John.

“Apparently not. A couple of people were on the street then, and once I was able to pull myself together I questioned whoever was still around, but it appears that nobody saw a thing. As I told you, it all happened in a flash.”

“Who do you know that has a large, dark car?”

“No one I can think of. Shawna doesn’t drive, Scott has a red Jaguar, and David’s car is beige and smallish—I have no idea of the make.”

“Whoever tried to run you over today could have gotten ahold of that vehicle just for the occasion,” I offered. “And this includes Shawna. Maybe she can drive after all.”

“I suppose. Still, I must admit that I can’t imagine any of those three behind that wheel.”

“But unless you’re able to come up with an alternative,” I countered reasonably, “I have to conclude that your would-be assassin was either David Hearn or one of the twins. So
can
you? Think of anyone else with reason to harm you, I mean.”

“I’ve been wracking my brain about that for days. And the answer is no, I can’t. As I told you on Friday, I don’t usually elicit that strong a response in people—positive
or
negative.” He smiled fleetingly. “Still, I can’t be certain I don’t have an enemy I’m not aware of.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assured him as I pushed away my plate—empty now except for a few globs of leftover catsup. “For the time being, though, I intend concentrating on Uncle Victor’s potential heirs.”

John nodded his acceptance—grudgingly, it seemed to me. “Oh, would you care for something else, Desiree?” he inquired then, noticing my naked plate.

“I’d love some coffee.”

He signaled the waitress, who soon reappeared with two steaming mugs.

For the most part, we drank in silence, our conversation limited to a few totally insignificant exchanges.

A short while later John insisted on driving me home, although he lived practically on the opposite end of Manhattan.

“You will take care of yourself, won’t you?” I asked as I was about to get out of the car.

“Of course.”

In all conscience, I had to give it one more try. “I wish you’d change your mind about switching to another PI agency. At least for the present, you could use someone who’d guard you on an almost round-the-clock basis.”

“Not according to the police,” John retorted, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Just talk to Fielding—he’s one of the detectives involved in the investigation. He’ll tell you that I—”

“Wait a minute. Did you say
Fielding
?”

“Yes, I did. Do you know him?”

“Is that
Sergeant
Fielding? Sergeant
Tim
Fielding?”

“That’s right.”

“Then the answer’s yes, I know him.”

“Well, is this good—his being on the case?” John asked anxiously.

“Let’s just say that it isn’t bad.”

But inside, I was smiling broadly.

I was just getting out of my clothes when the phone rang.

With one foot still in my panty hose, I couldn’t make it to the bedroom extension in time to prevent the recorded message on the answering machine from kicking in.

I picked up the receiver, forced to listen to the entire spiel. “Hello, this is Desiree . . .” it began. I cringed. The voice sounded depressingly like Minnie Mouse—no doubt as the result of some glitch in the instrument, I always tell myself. But faulty equipment or not, when confronted with something like that, it’s not easy to maintain your self-image as a Lauren Bacall sound-alike.

“Guess what dapper gentleman is in from Florida, Dez?” my across-the-hall-neighbor Harriet Gould chirped when we were finally able to converse. “He wasn’t due here until next month, but well, he decided to surprise us. Isn’t that nice?” With Harriet a serious candidate for the world’s lousiest actress, her cheery manner couldn’t have fooled a two-year-old. However, her eighty-plus father-in-law Pop (AKA Gus, AKA “the ball-buster”)—who was obviously within hearing range—is not what you’d call the discerning type.

“Crap,” I muttered, my hands suddenly damp.

“I knew you’d be pleased,” said the bogus Mary Sunshine.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Harriet. I have no intention of being in the company of that impossible man—ever again.”

“Pop’s fine, thank you. Oh, he looks wonderful. Listen, we’re going out for Chinese food tonight, and we’d love it if you could join us. Pop’s s-o-o anxious to see you. I told him when you had to miss his last couple of visits how sorry you were about it. But still, he’s gotten it into his head that you might be avoiding him. Naturally, I let him know he was just being silly.”

“You can talk all you want to,” I informed her sweetly. “It won’t do you a bit of good.”

“Well, of course. I assured him that you were legitimately tied up and that you’d
never
have hurt his feelings intentionally.”

“Hurt
what
feelings!” I screeched. I mean, on a sensitivity scale of one to ten, Pop Gould rated a minus five.

“About tonight, though, Pop—”

I cut her off. “Just say that I’m sorry but that I have a prior commitment. Anyhow, I’ve already eaten. And by the way, what about Steve?” I inquired, my tone one of mock concern for Harriet’s husband. “I just wouldn’t feel right depriving him of the chance to share in his father’s first evening back in town.”

“Steve’s at a convention in Philadelphia until late tomorrow afternoon. As a matter of fact, he has no idea yet that his dad flew in today. Hold on a second, Dez, will you?” Then to her father-in-law: “I hate to bother you, Pop, but I have this terrible headache. Would you mind getting a couple of aspirins out of the medicine cabinet for me? Oh, and a glass of water, too.”

I couldn’t hear Pop’s response, but Harriet followed it with, “Desiree has an appointment, but I’ll try to persuade her to reschedule it. What’s that? No, the aspirin really can’t wait. Honestly.”

There was a brief silence as Pop evidently made his
exit. And when Harriet spoke again it was in a whisper, and she was in her wheedling mode. “Please, Desiree. Do this for me, and I’ll be in your debt forever.”

“Ask me to pull out all my fingernails or dye my hair purple, and I just might do it for you. But
this
?”

“I know, I know. If you don’t come with us, though—and I realize I’m being selfish—I’ll have to be alone with him. In
public.
Do you want that on your conscience?” she demanded with a nervous titter. “Besides, in spite of what you think, Pop
does
have feelings, and since he walked in that door before he’s talked about nothing but you. It’s been ‘Desiree this’ and ‘Desiree that.’ I—” She broke off. “Thanks so much, Pop. No, I’m still not certain Dez can make it. We—”

But Pop wrested the receiver from her grasp. “So, Desiree, how you been?” said this thin little voice.

“Fine, thanks. And Harriet tells me you’re doing great.”

“Not bad for a fellow in his seventies.”

You wish,
I countered in my head.

“Listen, you afraid maybe I got leprosy or somethin’? Or maybe you’re just such a busy individual that when a friend comes all the way up from Florida, you can’t even take a few steps across the hall to say hello.”

“Well,” I sputtered, “I don’t remember why I . . . that is, I don’t remember the exact reasons I wasn’t able to get together on your last few trips, but it was probab—It was definitely unavoidable.”

“Okay, what’s past is past. But you could change your appointment tonight, if you wanted. It’s not written in stone that you gotta be somewheres else. True?” This was punctuated with a few HEH-HEHs, after which Pop added plaintively, “You wanna break an old man’s heart?”

“You’re right,” I answered resignedly. “My appointment isn’t written in stone.”

“Good.” And as he handed the phone back to Harriet: “She’s coming with us!” He sounded so gleeful that my conscience surfaced and gave me hell for having taken my original stand.

“Thanks, Dez,” Harriet said in a tone that managed to convey both gratitude and relief.

“Hey, what are friends for?”

They rang my bell a half hour later. There hadn’t been enough time for a much-needed shower—not at the rate of speed I move, anyway. But I did have a chance to fix my makeup and run a comb through my wig—
and
remind myself how infuriating Pop can be.

Take that incident some years back when the three of us went to this Lower East Side deli. The waiter, a crusty old man who was close to being a contemporary of Pop’s, had the misfortune of informing him that the restaurant was out of mushroom and barley soup. Well, Pop did not handle this news particularly well. He carried on—and on—about how they never seem to have the aforementioned item when he’s there. He even intimated that the place might be setting it aside for their preferred customers. Finally, the exasperated waiter suggested—facetiously—that Pop come to the kitchen with him and see for himself that there was no mushroom and barley soup left.

Now, Pop, not being into facetious, took the startled fellow at his word. And the two shuffled off toward the kitchen, the waiter leading the way and Pop continually stepping on his heels. Every few seconds the waiter would turn around to glare at him and mumble under his breath—something X-rated, I’m sure. The only plus was that Harriet and I, both of us totally mortified by then, were unable to make out what it was.

Upon returning from his inspection tour, Pop reported that apparently they
were
out of the coveted soup. But did this little fact embarrass him into
behaving himself? In a pig’s eye! Not too much later he was grousing about the pastrami’s tasting like perfume. And after that it was the strudel that offended him. I won’t even go into what the old dear had to say about
that.
It’s enough to inform you that at this point there was a firm request that we absent ourselves from the premises.

At any rate, while I was having second thoughts about again agreeing to break bread—or, in this case, fortune cookies—with Harriet’s delightful in-law, the doorbell rang.

A tanned and smiling Pop was standing on the threshold, gray felt hat in hand, with Harriet lagging a short space behind him, looking guilty.
And well she might,
I thought.

As always, the little man—he was five-three on his tiptoes—was impeccably dressed, tonight in lightweight gray wool pants, a gray-and-white tweed sport jacket, and a red tie with charcoal-and-white polka dots. His black shoes, I noticed, were so highly polished that in a pinch they could double as a mirror.

Pop and I stood there appraising each other for a second or two. Then he nodded sagely. “All in all, you’re lookin’ very fine, Desiree. You maybe got a little fatter since I last seen you, though.”

“Pop!” Harriet exclaimed, her face suddenly redder than my wig.

Pop turned to her, shaking his head sadly. “You don’t understand, Harriet. This is A-okay with me. Who wants a woman she should have these skinny little ribs poking out all over her like a chicken?”

“Uh, would you like to come in for a drink?” For some reason I felt obligated to extend the invitation. (But where-oh-where was a little hemlock when you really needed it?)

“No thanks, Dez,” Harriet put in quickly. “We have reservations, and we’re in danger of being late as it is.”

Going down in the elevator, Pop elbowed Harriet aside in order to stand next to me. “My Frances, may she rest in peace, was no lightweight, either,” he told me. “She was zaftig, like you. You know what zaftig means?”

“Yes, I know what it means.” I may be a (nonpracticing) Catholic, but remember, I
was
married to Ed Shapiro, my wonderful late husband who died five too-short years into the marriage. Besides, you pick up your share of Yiddish expressions just living in New York.

Anyhow, Pop was insisting, “Zaftig is a compliment. Honest.” And Harriet was glowering at him. “All right, maybe I shouldn’ta used the word ‘fat’ before, but I meant it in a
good
way. Okay?” He poked me in the side.

“Okay,” I muttered.

“See? Desiree isn’t mad at me,” he advised his daughter-in-law, “so you don’t have to give me no lectures later.”

Her only response was a deep sigh. But I’d have bet anything she was clenching her teeth.

The Oriental Palace was a nice, quiet little restaurant. Not exactly elegant, but softly lit and attractively decorated. What’s more, the food was unusually good without being exorbitantly priced. And in spite of that earlier hamburger, I found I was now hungry enough to enjoy it. But then
somebody
managed to ruin my appetite. Which is a pretty tough thing to do.

This
somebody
wasted no time in critiquing the meal. The egg rolls, he sniffed, were greasy. The spareribs, he grumbled, were fatty. And the dim sum were so heavy that they “already are sitting there like lead in the bottom of my stomach.” Nor did he restrict his complaining to Harriet and me. It wasn’t long before he called over our waiter, who, planting himself alongside Pop’s chair, didn’t utter so much as a
syllable during the cantankerous little man’s entire diatribe. In fact, the waiter—the small gold bar on his shirt said “
JIM
”—was actually beaming. I figured he either (a) had a very limited understanding of English or—and this is where I came out—(b) wanted us to
think
he had a very limited understanding of English.

At any rate, when the second course arrived, I steeled myself for more of the same. Happily, though, we got through it with a minimal amount of bitching, Pop making only mild mention of the wonton soup’s being on the watery side.

But then came the entrees we were sharing.

As soon as we were served the shrimp with black bean sauce, Pop frowned at his plate and demanded that Jim explain why there weren’t any beans—“no
American
beans, anyways”—in the bean sauce. The perpetual grin still in place, Jim hunched his shoulders and signaled to the hostess, who, aware that at least a half dozen pairs of eyes were staring in our direction, promptly offered to substitute another selection.

“No, it’s all right, girlie,” Pop informed her graciously. “Only you shouldn’t name it black
bean
sauce if it don’t contain real beans.”

Pop helped himself to the sweet and pungent chicken next, and—miraculously—the dish passed muster.

It was when he was tackling the moo shoo pork, however—which Harriet and/or I should have known better than to order—that the man went into high gear.

Rejecting with a cavalier wave of the hand his daughter-in-law’s offer to fill his pancakes for him, he proceeded to tear the first one to shreds. This was probably the only time anyone had succeeded in making a worse mess of that little chore than I did, some of Pop’s filling even squirting off his plate. I think the embarrassment with regard to his ineptness was what led him to confine himself to three or four mumbled
“damn”s and a single, barely audible “oh, hell” as he proceeded to mutilate the thing. But after pancake number two met a fate similar to its predecessor’s, a frustrated Pop had had enough. “They call these
pancakes
?” he whined loudly. “Tissue paper’s what they should call them!” He glanced around, then addressed the entire room. “You wanta be smart? Don’t order nothing comes with pancakes.”

We slunk away before dessert. But at this restaurant, at least, we left of our own volition.

When we got off the elevator, Harriet made a dash for her apartment. She was to confess later that Pop had pleaded with her to allow him a couple of minutes alone with me. (An explanation that provoked an almost overwhelming desire in me to break both her legs.)

“We had a lota fun tonight, didn’t we, Desiree?” Pop remarked, as we stood in front of my door with me fumbling around in my suitcase-sized handbag for my keys. I was having a slight problem locating them among the bag’s other contents, which along with the expected wallet and makeup kit presently included a can of hairspray, a bottle of Poland Spring water (someone had left it in my office), a bottle of cough syrup (a holdover from last month’s cold), a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol, a stapler (it’s a long story), a pliers (don’t even ask), a flashlight, a cell phone (a recent acquisition), a metal tape measure, two notebooks, three or four pens—and I can’t recall what else.