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.
Chapter 5
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.”
“Well, probably the reason for John’s being so high on the list is that he was such a comfort to your uncle when Aunt Bella died.”
“Really? I didn’t know anything about that. But if that’s the reason, okay. I can see it with John. The twins, though?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”
Neither of us said anything for a brief time after this. David was the one to puncture the silence. “Listen, I know all this whining about the will makes me sound pretty mercenary. But I can’t help the way I feel.”
“I can appreciate your disappointment. Look at it from your uncle’s point of view, though. I mean, you didn’t keep in very close contact with him, did you?”
“Who told you that—Trudie?” He held up his hand. “Never mind. I won’t deny that I didn’t see him as often as I should have. But I was away at school for years. And I did call him every couple of months. I could have done better, though; I admit that. I’m honestly sorry that I was so neglectful. And not just because of the money, either. Because of Uncle Victor himself.
“Even these days he’s like a role model to me. In spite of his illness, he makes an effort to live his life. When I was there last time—that was when he laid that will on us—he challenged me to a game of chess. We didn’t play for long—lately Uncle Victor tires pretty quickly—but what got to me was his determination not to just lie there and vegetate. He may be dying—there’s no hope of his licking that cancer—but he isn’t dead yet. And it’s apparent that he’s going to keep things as normal as he can for as long as he can.”
“He sounds like quite a man.”
“He is.” Suddenly a worrisome thought clouded David Hearn’s handsome face. “You’re not planning to question Uncle Victor, are you? Because he has no idea that Edward’s been killed.”
“Relax, David. The last thing I’d want to do is interrogate anyone who’s that ill about the murder of a person he loves. Particularly when I don’t consider it absolutely necessary—as in this instance.”
“Good,” an obviously relieved David responded. “I can’t see how he could possibly be of help to you anyway.”
“Agreed. But I’d like to talk to you about someone else now: my client. With this attack on his life, it’s crucial that I find out as much as I can about your cousin John. For starters, would you mind telling me what you think of him?”
David peered at me with mock severity. “Hey! Is it conceivable that you haven’t been hanging on my every word? Once again, John and I aren’t cousins; we’re not even related.”
“That’s right. I keep forgetting.”
“But to answer you, I haven’t actually had that much contact with John, so I can’t say very much about his character. He seems nice enough, though—he’s always been very pleasant to me.” I was about to pose another question when David put in, “But ask me what I think of his wife, and you’ll get a different story entirely.”
I grinned. “All right. I’m asking.”
“I could never figure out what would make a man marry someone that pushy, that overbearing. She sticks her nose into everything. She must be years older than John is, too.” And in a show of commiseration with his noncousin, he screwed up his mouth and slowly shook his head.
“Oh, come now, David, Trudie isn’t that bad,” I protested. It was reflexive. You know, like Pavlov’s dog. I mean, when a woman—especially one who is no longer of tender years—is verbally attacked, I seem to feel this compulsion to act as her champion. Never mind how obnoxious I myself consider the lady to be.
“She’s a bitch,” David insisted, smiling.
“Have it your way. But about John . . . do you have any idea—any idea at all—who might want him dead?”
“Only those of us on the inheritance line,” he joked. At least, I took it that he was joking. “But seriously, I don’t know enough about your client to have a clue about something like that.”
I moved on. “There’s some information I need for my records, David. First, where were you last Monday at around 11:30 P.M. ?”
“You said that was when someone took a shot at him,” David stated as if for verification.
“Yes.”
“I was where I normally am at that hour: home in bed, watching Letterman. Alone. My girlfriend walked out on me a few months ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I got away lucky. Suzanne’s a Trudie Lander in training.”
“I have to ask you something else.”
“Whether I’ve got an alibi for a couple of weeks before that—when Edward was killed, right?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “As I informed the two members of New York’s Finest who came to visit me, at eight o’clock I was having dinner—all by myself—at a coffee shop near my apartment. I go to Ginger’s fairly often, but I can’t see why anyone should remember my being there that particular evening.”
“How did you pay for your meal?”
“In cash—they don’t take credit cards. Incidentally, Ginger’s is on Seventh Street between Second and Third Avenues, if you’d like to check it out anyway.”
I wouldn’t. There really wasn’t any point in it. If there had been the slightest chance someone at the restaurant could help him establish his whereabouts, David would probably be prodding me with a hot poker right now to get me over to the place. He did surprise me, however, by pulling his wallet from his pants pocket and extracting a two-by-three photograph.
“Just in case you need it for sleuthing purposes,” he explained, handing it to me. I glanced at the picture, a headshot of him with a pretty dark-haired girl.
“Suzanne?” I asked.
“That’s her. And by the way, don’t bother returning the thing. The only reason that photo continues to exist is because I keep forgetting to tear it up.”
A couple of seconds passed, then David said earnestly, “Look, Desiree, in order to inherit Uncle Victor’s money, it would have been necessary for me to get rid of Edward, after which I’d still have to dispose of the others—John and both of the twins. This would make me a mass murderer, for Christ’s sake! Do I strike you as being capable of something like that?”
Now, in spite of how snippy he’d been on the telephone, I was finding this man to be surprisingly ingratiating face-to-face. So much so that after a while I’d even st
opped noticing that very incongruous voice of his. “No, I can’t say that you do,” I responded. “But I’ve been wrong before.”
I flinched at the truth of these words. In the course of my investigations, I seem to keep leaping from one faulty perception to another. The fact is, I’ve pretty much come to the realization that when woman’s intuition was handed out, some other girl baby got her chubby little mitts on my share, too.
So my taking a liking to David Hearn wasn’t nearly as big a plus for him as one might think.
Chapter 6
David left at just after two, long before my three-thirty appointment with Shawna Riley. But if I have one major talent in this life, it’s finding ways to piddle away the time.
Now, this frequently leads to my being less than punctual when it comes to social engagements—which, for your information, have hardly been making a lot of appearances on my calendar lately. Somehow, though, I almost invariably manage to be scrupulously prompt for work-related meetings.
This, however, would not be holding true today.
Of course, I did have to wash up the lunch dishes, and that must have taken at least five or six minutes. And then because I still had close to an hour on my hands—even deducting a more-than-ample thirty minutes for the taxi ride to Shawna’s—I revisited the New York Times crossword I’d come close to finishing in the morning. But after about five minutes of further brain-taxing, I couldn’t fill in a single additional letter. Irritated, I stuffed the puzzle in the garbage can, placating myself with the assurance that, for all intents and purposes (and don’t ask me what I meant by this), I’d completed it anyway. It was still too early to get ready to go out, though, so I curled up on the sofa and turned on the TV, catching the last part of an ancient Joan Crawford movie. Well, being that I have a thing for ancient Joan Crawford movies, I got so engrossed in the story that I swear my hand froze in midair both times that I went to switch it off. Fortunately, it was over at three; otherwise, I might still be sitting there.
Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair Page 3