Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  “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.

  Looking up, I eked out a smile. “Yes, we did.”

  “I’m gonna be in town until next Saturday,” he told me meaningfully.

  I pretended I didn’t understand what he was getting at. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself, too.” I got the impression he was about to say more, so I hurriedly threw in, “You must be really anxious to see Steve.”

  He considered this for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “And you have a new great-grandchild you haven’t even met yet,” I pointed out before going back to my fumbling.

  “Harriet’s gonna take me over there tomorrow. I pray the kid should only be smarter than his father—my grandson, that dope. But anyways, I’ll be free later on—in the evening. Maybe you’d like to go to that deli on the Lower East Side we ate in once. But only the two of us this time, okay? We had a lota fun at that place, too, ’member?”

  Words failed me—almost. Again interrupting the search for my keys, I gave the man my complete attention. “Yes, I remember. But listen, Pop, I recently became involved in a very time-consuming investigation, and I’m too bogged down with work to accept any more dinner invitations for quite a while. Umm, thanks for asking, though.”

  “If you don’t desire to go back to the deli, we could go somewheres different,” he cajoled. “All you gotta do is name it. And I don’t want you should be concerned. You could even pay for yourself so’s you wouldn’t feel obligated in any way—if you take my meaning. Unless,” he added slyly, “you want to be obligated.”

  Why, that cheeky little bugger! I could hardly believe what I was hearing. How did I get so lucky, anyway? I mean, first there was the Don Juan of the elevators, and then this randy geriatric here. And all in one day, too! “Uh, that’s very thoughtful of you, Pop, but I’m afraid I don’t have the luxury of a social life right now.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a call anyways. You never can tell what’ll be.” And with this, he leaned over to kiss me. Fortunately, my reflexes are in much better shape than my body parts. Just in time I turned my head, and the kiss landed harmlessly on my cheek.

  Pop chuckled. “Okay, okay. But what was it that O’Reilly lady said?”

  “O’Reilly lady?”

  “I’m surprised at you! You never heard of Scarlett O’Reilly?” He wagged a finger in my face. “ ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’ That’s what she said.”

  Chapter 10

  Safely on the other side of the door now, I leaned heavily against it, giving in to the strain this evening with Pop had produced. Not even the fact that the doorknob was boring into my lower back could induce me to move.

  I tried telling myself I should take some satisfaction from having done a good deed tonight—two of them, actually. I’d helped out a friend and made an old man happy. Then I recalled that familiar saying about no good deed going unpunished. From here on in—until Pop left for Florida, at any rate—the answering machine would have to screen every one of my calls.

  On reflection, however, I had to concede that this was really no big deal—and doubtless the price that all of us sex symbols had to pay.

  Well, I could say one thing for Pop: He’d managed to chase everything else from my thoughts.

  But later, after I’d finally unglued myself from that door and gone to bed, John Lander put in an appearance—figuratively speaking, naturally—refusing to let me sleep.

  I liked John. I really did. Of course, I make an effort to like all my clients, and for the most part, I succeed. The way I see it, when you’re favorably disposed toward someone, you tend to try a little harder for them, whether you’re aware of it or not. In John’s case, though, I know I’d have had those same positive feelings if I hadn’t been working for him.

  The man was intelligent, pleasant, low-keyed. And what impressed me most, he was fair-minded—although, to my way of thinking, foolishly so. Take his reluctance to accept that someone in line for Uncle Victor’s fortune could be the perpetrator. He even berated himself for entertaining the possibility that one of these “decent” people wanted him dead. (I, however, had no such guilt pangs about making this assumption. I mean, it certainly didn’t appear that anyone else stood to gain from the demise of both John and Edward.)

  Still, at present my admiration for my client was almost equaled by my anger toward him. How could he refuse to consider a bodyguard—especially now, when there’d been not one, but two attempts on his life? I’d been worried about the man from the beginning. But it was nothing like the fear that gripped me at this moment.

  Eventually I elected to evict John Lander from my head—a must if I had any hope of getting some sleep. But he refused to budge. My concern for John kept me throwing myself all over that bed for hours, at turns pounding the pillow and then burying my face in it. At last, when the morning light was already creeping in under the shade, he wandered away, allowing me to drop off—and head straight into a nightmare.

  The day was lovely—sunshiny and warm, but with a nice, cool breeze. John and Trudie were walking together in what I took to be a meadow. He was wearing dark pants and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. She had on a white peasant blouse and a long, billowy skirt in a lively red print, the skirt cinched by a wide black patent belt that emphasized the tiniest of waists. In my dream Trudie was younger,more carefree than the real thing. And John had a new energy, a lightheartedness about him. The two traipsed hand in hand through the tall grass, laughing. Every so often they’d stop to admire a flower or a tree or to gaze adoringly at each other.

  Suddenly it began to pour. The deluge was so heavy that the pair was unable to see much more than an inch in front of them. But now Trudie pointed to her left. Somehow she had managed to make out a house in the distance.

  Soaked with rain, their clothing plastered against their bodies, the couple dashed madly in the direction of the shelter. Only to discover that there wasn’t any shelter. Instead, they had reached the edge of a cliff. Blinded by the downpour, however, they hurried on. I watched in horror as, hands still entwined, they plummeted into space—and onto the jagged rocks below.

  But when I looked more closely at the woman lying motionless beside John Lander, it wasn’t Trudie’s face I saw. It was my own.

  I was clammy and disoriented when I awoke. I pinched my left forearm to establish that I was alive. Then I glanced at the clock: eleven-ten. Well, I was rising later than I’d intended to, but I was not about to apologize for it. Don’t forget it was barely daylight when I’d gotten up yesterday (okay, so I’m taking a little poetic license here), and I hadn’t closed my eyes this morning until well after Dracula did. Plus, in between there’d been all sorts of significant and/or unnerving matters to deal with. And listen, I hadn’t exactly had a picnic in Dreamland, either.

  I washed up hurriedly, then tried Scott Riley’s home number without even taking the time for a sip or two of coffee.

  “Scott Riley speaking,” said a very precise voice in a register not much lower than his sister’s. What was it with this family’s vocal cords? I wondered, momentarily throwing David Hearn into the mix, too. Then I remembered. Sooner or later, I thought in irritation, I was bound to absorb the simple fact that we were dealing with two different gene pools here.

  I opened with, “My name is Desiree Shapiro, and I’m a—”

  “I know who you are,” Scott interrupted. “I presume you’re telephoning to set up an appointment. When would you care to do this?”

  I was surprised at his lack of resistance to the idea. “Well, I’d appreciate it if we could get together as soon as possible.” />
  “It happens that I can meet with you at any time today, including this evening. A lady friend had to cancel our date only an hour ago—she’s going out of town on business this afternoon, and she won’t be returning until Tuesday.”

  We proceeded to make our arrangements, settling on five o’clock at Scott’s West Eighty-fourth Street apartment. But why, I asked myself in passing, had he found it necessary to explain his availability like that?

  As soon as the conversation was over, I dialed the Twelfth Precinct.

  I was very anxious to reconnect with Tim Fielding. It had been quite a while since we’d last been in touch, and I was looking forward to seeing my old friend again. And who was I to complain if our little reunion would also afford me an opportunity to determine just what it was the police had on my client? Not that I expected Tim to be that forthcoming, you understand. Not at first, anyway. But it was my intention to pump him for all he was worth.

  It was a letdown to be informed that Sergeant Fielding was off for the day. But then, with a mental shrug, I bounced right back. “Well, he has himself a little reprieve, that’s all,” I confided to the dead receiver in my hand.

  ***

  Over breakfast I finally had a chance to ponder my chilling dream. What could it possibly mean: that I wanted to be in Trudie’s place, married to John?

  No. While I liked John—I’ve already told you that—I didn’t like him, like him, as Ellen would say. The fact is, he wasn’t my type in the least, since I almost invariably fall for those skinny, sawed-off little twerps who look as if they’re in desperate need of a bit of nourishment and a lot of TLC. (I don’t know. Ed and I never had any children, so maybe it’s a nurturing thing with me.)

  Okay. So what else could it mean? Did I fear that John was going to come to a terrible end and that in the process I’d go down, too?