Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  “That seems to do it, all right. Anyway, before you were so rudely interrupted, I had the idea you were about to tell me where you were when your cousin died.”

  “I was at work.”

  “Is there anyone who can verify that?”

  John smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid not—the police asked me the same thing. My secretary went home at five-thirty, so no help there. For the most part I concentrated on catching up on my paperwork that night, although I did get in touch with a few prospective buyers—I’m in real estate. I tried to reach one of them at just around eight o’clock, too. But the party wasn’t in; I didn’t even get an answering machine.”

  “Nobody telephoned you, I take it.”

  “Unfortunately, lately I tend to be doing most of the pursuing.”

  “Did anyone stop in at your office? With a food delivery, maybe? Or how about the cleaning lady?”

  “Don’t I wish!”

  “Did you have your car with you that day?”

  “Yes, I always drive to work.”

  “Your office is where?”

  “In Brooklyn—Brooklyn Heights,” John replied, naming one of the borough’s more upscale areas.

  “Answer this for me. About how long would it take to drive from your office to your cousin’s place?”

  Evidently Trudie had grown impatient with not hearing her own voice for a few minutes, because guess who jumped in. “At that hour of the evening? He could probably make it to Edward’s in a half hour. Perhaps less.”

  Well, since she’s so eager to participate . . . “Umm, I’ll have to ask you the same thing I just asked your husband, Mrs. Lander. Would you mind telling me where you were at eight o’clock on the night of the murder?” Following this, I hastily threw in the same lie I’ve relied on too often in the past to even estimate. “I’m only asking for my records, of course.”

  There was a large dollop of sarcasm in the response. “That’s easy. I was where I always am—at home, waiting for John to put in an appearance. He got in around ten—it was one of his early days.”

  “Any telephone calls? Visitors?”

  “I can’t be absolutely certain, but I believe I spoke to my aunt Margaret that evening. This would have been about six-thirty, though, which is when we normally phone each other.”

  “And you had no other calls?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “How about visitors?”

  Trudie shook her head. “I’m sure there weren’t any.”

  “Tell me, who was it who discovered Edward’s body?”

  “His wife. She found him when she came home.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Around a quarter to eleven. He had apparently admitted the killer to the apartment himself—from what I understand, there was no indication of a break-in. Edward was lying on the kitchen floor with a bullet in his chest.” She squeezed her eyes closed as if to block out the scene.

  “Just one last thing,” I said, addressing John. “How did—” But Trudie had already allowed him to have his say. So reminding myself about eliminating the middleman—and with an apologetic glance at John—I redirected the question to her. “How did Edward and John get along?”

  “They were buddies—right, dear? They often played golf on Sunday mornings, and they met for breakfast every Wednesday before going to their respective places of business. They belonged to the same gym, too, and sometimes they’d arrange to work out together. We even took a vacation with Edward and Sara—his wife—a couple of years ago.”

  “And you? How did you feel about Edward?”

  “I liked him. He was a very nice man,” she responded primly.

  “Just one last thing,” I said for the second time. “What made you decide to come to me with this?”

  Trudie hesitated. “May I be honest?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, ever since John was shot at four nights ago, I’d been trying to persuade him to hire a private detective.”

  “Persuade me?” John groused. “She hounded me about it.”

  His wife ignored him. “At first he wouldn’t even consider the idea.” She smiled smugly. “But being an extremely determined woman, I finally managed to wear him down.” Why didn’t this surprise me? “I had inquired around a bit and gotten the telephone numbers of the top two investigative services in New York. John, however, refused to ring up either one of them—you wouldn’t think it, but he can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be. He said he’d hire a detective if I insisted. But only with the proviso that the detective be you.”

  At this, my eyes must have grown to twice their size. I looked to John for an explanation.

  “I heard about you a while ago,” he said, flushing. “I wish I could remember who it was who mentioned you, but I do recall this person’s saying that if he—or she—were ever in trouble, you’d be the one they’d contact, that you have a reputation for getting results. For some reason that stuck in my mind.”

  Well, I have met with a certain amount of success in recent years. But as far as this providing me with any kind of recognition, let’s put it this way: Desiree Shapiro is not exactly a household name.

  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?

  Chapter 3

  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 th
ese 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.”

  Chapter 4

  “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.