Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair

by Selma Eichler

  If this was the case, why was Trudie the one who went off the cliff with him?

  Oh, hell. I gave up. They say that dreams are seldom what they seem, anyway. Besides, who did I think I was—Mrs. Freud?

  Chapter 11

  The living room of Scott Riley’s sprawling five-room apartment was a paradigm of masculinity: dark wood walls, taupe leather chairs, cream leather sofas (there were two of these), redbrick fireplace, and a handsome mahogany bar stocked with spirits of every variety.

  The setting was in sharp contrast to the man himself, a male version of the girl I’d met yesterday. What was attractive in her, however, was far less so in him. Both were short and small-boned, but whereas she looked delicate, he looked frail. The pale coloring that was such an asset to Shawna, in Scott was an almost sickly-looking pallor. Even his blue eyes were a watered-down version of his twin’s.

  “Make yourself comfortable, won’t you?” he invited, waving his hand expansively to indicate the large selection of seating accommodations available. He had a precise—actually, prissy—manner of speaking. And his immaculate attire, which featured a maroon-silk ascot tucked inside his crisp, white shirt, appeared to reflect a determined striving for cosmopolitan.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Ms. Shapiro?” he inquired, as I headed for the nearest sofa.

  “I’d love a Coke, if you have one. And, please, call me Desiree, Mr. Riley.”

  “Certainly, I have one. And I’ll be happy to call you Desiree, if you wish. Excuse me while I fetch our drinks.” I noticed he hadn’t suggested I use his given name. But, as I recalled, his sister hadn’t made that offer, either.

  “Ice?” he inquired from behind the bar.

  “That would be great.”

  A couple of minutes later he was back with a Coke for me and red wine for himself.

  Handing me the tumbler of soda, he settled into one of the club chairs across from the sofa. “An exceedingly complex 1996 Cabernet Sauvignon,” he enlightened me, passing the wineglass under his nose. “Superbly balanced. After finishing the first bottle, I was unable to resist the impulse to purchase an entire case.”

  At this point the Coke was about an inch shy of my lips. Scott reached over and stayed my hand. “To success in your investigation, Desiree,” he said, clinking glasses.

  “Why . . . uh, thank you.” I was taken aback. I couldn’t remember any suspect’s ever doing something like that before. And Scott had to realize that’s what he was—a suspect, I mean.

  “A revelation,” he pronounced, after sampling the wine. “May I pour some for you?”

  “Thank you, but I’m supposed to be working now, and it doesn’t take much more than the sniff of a cork to impede my thought processes.”

  “As you prefer,” Scott murmured, sounding slightly miffed. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet. “Oh, my heavens, I almost forgot. Be back in a jiff.” And he dashed from the room.

  He reappeared toting a large tray from which he removed two small platters, setting them on the brass-trimmed wood table between us. These were followed by a bunch of cocktail napkins and a couple of elegant porcelain hors d’oeuvres plates. “I don’t know where my head is today. Do help yourself.”

  On one platter was a variety of cheese wedges surrounded by crackers, cherries, and grapes. The other held a crock of pâté, accompanied by artfully arranged toast rounds and cornichons.

  I sampled the pâté first. It was nothing short of divine. And I told Scott so.

  His chest seemed to puff out about six inches when he said that he’d made it himself.

  Then, as I was topping a cracker with this creamy white cheese—St. André, Scott apprised me—I began my questioning. “I was advised that you’re one of the heirs to your uncle’s estate.”

  Scott paused in the act of spreading some pâté on a toast round to respond. “Only a very minor one—unless something should happen to John before Uncle Victor dies. That’s why you’re here, correct? You want me to tell you where I was the night somebody attempted to do in your client.”

  “Uh, yes. I’d appreciate it.”

  “I was right where I am now. I had a cold for a good part of last week, thanks to a terribly inconsiderate lady friend who was far too demonstrative when you take into account how infectious she was. At any rate, I was staying in as much as I could to rest it up. I even worked out of the apartment for a couple of days—which, given that I’m an architect, presented no problem.”

  “Did you happen to see or hear from anyone who can confirm you were at home that evening?”

  “Earlier, yes. But not at eleven-thirty, which is the hour in question, as I understand it. Listen, Desiree, I don’t want to tell you how to conduct your business. But if I were you, I would give serious thought to the possibility that the culprit was some teenage hoodlum out to amuse himself by taking potshots at decent, taxpaying citizens. That sort of outrage occurs all too frequently these days.”

  “Your sister had pretty much the same thing to say about the incident, and I’m certainly keeping that possibility in mind.”

  “Good.”

  “Still, with Edward’s having been murdered just two weeks before that, well, it does seem a bit of a coincidence.”

  “However, coincidences do occur. That’s why they invented a word for it.”

  I grinned. “I’ve never heard the premise defended like that.”

  Scott grinned back at me. “I’ll deem that a compliment, if I may. Now, as for the night Cousin Edward was murdered, I had prepared dinner for my sister that Tuesday, and we were together the entire evening. She arrived at six-thirty, and she didn’t leave for home until ten, perhaps a few minutes earlier. But I would assume Shawna’s already told you this.”

  “Yes, and by the way, she said the meal was absolutely delicious. I’m trying to remember exactly what you served, though.”

  “You’re checking to see if we have our stories straight, isn’t that it?” Scott challenged, looking smug. “But all right, I’ll help you out. We started with clams oreganato . . .” He went on to confirm the menu Shawna had laid out for me on Saturday, even supplying the name of the dish that had eluded her: Veal Prince Orloff. “Satisfied?” he inquired, after concluding with the crème brûlée.

  “Satisfied. I have another question for you though. Where were you at around twelve-thirty yesterday afternoon?”

  “I was at home, preparing another of my matchless feasts; I had dinner guests last night.”

  “Would there, by any chance, be anyone who could confirm that you were in the apartment then?”

  “Not a soul. I received a couple of phone calls, but it was when I was in the midst of preparing the pâte à choux for my croquembouche, and I could not be disturbed—timing is crucial. Therefore I let the machine pick up.” He was looking at me eagerly now. “Why do you ask?”

  Well, I had no intention of revealing that John had had another narrow escape, so I mumbled, “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss that.” And then so that the refusal might be slightly more acceptable to my pouting host, I added, “Not just yet, anyhow.”

  Scott made a sound that was very much like a harrumph, and I quickly moved on. “Would you mind answering something else for me?”

  He shrugged before responding. “Go on.”

  “What was your opinion of your cousin Edward?”

  “He was all right, I suppose. But both Edward and John are quite a lot older than we are—Shawna and I. So we’ve never had much of a relationship with either of them.”

  “Would you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Edward?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  “Umm, how about John? How do you feel about him?”

  “He seems to be a decent enough chap, as well.”

  Did he say “chap”? I suppressed a smile. “What about enemies? Has John ruffled any feathers that you know of?”

  “No. And if you don’t mind my saying this, you don’t appear to be giving much weight to my s
treet-crime theory.”

  “I assure you, I’m not disregarding it. But when a man who is shortly due to come into a bundle is murdered, you have to at least recognize that there might have been a financial motive for what happened. And when soon after this an attempt is made on the life of the person who’s next in line to inherit, well, I’d be extremely negligent if I didn’t investigate the likelihood of a tie-in.”

  Scott dug in his heels. “I still believe it was some young punk who shot at your client.”

  “I’m not disputing you. In that event, though, who shot Edward?”

  “This I couldn’t say. As I’ve been trying to impress upon you, I really didn’t know very much about the man, but—” Breaking off abruptly, Scott tilted his head to one side. For a few seconds he sat there silently, frowning. And when he addressed me again, he spoke slowly, his eyes focused on some point over my left shoulder. “If, however, I’m mistaken about that attack on John having been a random act, then . . .” His voice trailed off, and he blinked a few times.

  “Then—what?”

  “Then it’s probable that the shooting is connected to Edward’s death. And in that case . . .” He shook his head as if having difficulty accepting the thought.

  “In that case—?” I prompted.

  “It would have to pertain to Uncle Victor’s will, with the ‘perpetrator,’ as you people call it, almost certainly David Hearn.”

  “Why David?”

  “Obviously, I would know if it were I, and it wasn’t. I can vouch for Shawna, as well—positively. And I assure you I’d be just as convinced of this if she hadn’t been with me at the time Edward was killed. She’s simply not that sort of individual.”

  “But three more people would have to die in order for David to inherit.” The words were out before I’d really considered them. And, to my embarrassment, the inference was pretty clear: On the other hand, just one person—my client—stood between the Riley twins and all that prosperity. “Of course,” I added in a belated—and fairly transparent—burst of diplomacy, “who’s to say David didn’t regard the rewards as worth the effort?”

  I could have sung all the verses of The Star-Spangled Banner—including the ones hardly anyone’s even heard of—and polished off the performance with a little tap dance (if I knew how to tap-dance, that is) in the silence that followed. At last Scott took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “I had no intention of telling you this, but the truth is, it would only be necessary for David to dispose of John in order to get his hands on a good portion of Uncle Victor’s assets.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Shawna and David—they’re involved.”

  “Do you mean romantically?”

  “I imagine you could term it that,” Scott retorted snidely.

  Remembering Shawna’s comments about David Hearn—and his about her, as well—I had a real problem accepting that there could be anything between the two of them. “Are you certain? Your sister seemed almost disdainful of David.”

  “I would surmise that this was designed to muddy the waters a bit. They appear determined to keep their unfortunate affair a deep, dark secret. Shawna never even told me about the relationship. And we’ve always shared everything.”

  “How did you find out, then?”

  “I did something I’m not too proud of.”

  “I haven’t come here to judge you. Honestly.”

  Scott hesitated a few moments before going on. “This dates back several months, Desiree, when I encountered my next-door neighbor at the food market one day. ‘I saw your sister at the theater the other night,’ she informed me. ‘She was with a very handsome fellow, too.’

  “Well, Shawna hadn’t breathed a word to me about going to the theater nor—and this was really so unlike her—about having some new man in her life. Of course, I phoned her that same evening and casually mentioned what Althea Birney had had to say. Shawna insisted that Althea had mistaken her for someone else. I didn’t find that explanation terribly satisfactory, however. You must appreciate, Desiree, that the two women have more than a nodding acquaintance. The Birneys—Althea and Clayton—have been frequent guests at my little cocktail parties, and I don’t think my sister has missed even one of those.

  “Naturally, I was puzzled as to the reason for Shawna’s denial and, yes, hurt that she hadn’t seen fit to confide in me. But I elected to put the matter out of my mind. Perhaps Althea was mistaken, I told myself. Then several weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon, I stopped at Shawna’s. And while I was at the apartment she received a telephone call. Instantly, she became terribly flustered. She told me she’d be taking the call in the bedroom and asked that I hang up the receiver when she picked up.”

  It was evident that Scott was more reluctant than ever to continue, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I only pretended to comply, however; I listened to that entire conversation. It was David Hearn on the other end of the line, and from what was said, I was able to ascertain that he and Shawna had been seeing each other for some time and that it was serious.” He seemed to be fighting back tears when he added, “I can only pray that Shawna will eventually come to recognize how unworthy he is of her.

  “At any rate, I hope you believe me, Desiree, when I tell you that I’d never before stooped to a thing like that. Not even once. But this was my sister, and well, I cherish the woman. I had to do what was required to assure myself that she wasn’t in any sort of difficulty. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Of course, I haven’t let on that I know about her and David because I dare not tell her how I know. I’m very much afraid that she’d never forgive me.”

  “Why do you think Shawna tried to keep you in the dark about the romance?”

  “I presume that originally it was because I’ve always disliked David Hearn—even when we were children. Shawna wasn’t too fond of him, either, if the truth be told. But I suppose it’s hormones uber alles.” With this, Scott actually turned a very becoming shade of pink. “I have no doubt, though, that she would have talked to me about it eventually if it hadn’t been for Edward’s murder and now this business with John. I would venture to say these things are what made Shawna wary of trusting even her own brother with her secret.”

  “What do Edward and John have to do with it?”

  “It’s quite likely that David is in dire need of funds.” And then, looking much too self-satisfied to suit me: “Apparently we have a case of like father, like son. You do know that the senior Hearn is a degenerate gambler, don’t you? Well, that day on the telephone David told Shawna that someone with a name like Righty or Lefty or some such wasn’t willing to wait much longer for what he—David—owed the fellow. And I gathered he wasn’t speaking about any paltry sum, either. To show you how besotted she is, my sister pleaded to give David the money he needed—which I assume she planned to badger our mother for. But Mr. Sir Lancelot wouldn’t hear of it. Then Shawna asked if he was going to speak to Uncle Victor about his situation, but David refused even to consider going to my uncle about any gambling debts. Shawna was very upset; she wanted to know if lover boy had any other way of getting that kind of capital, and he replied that he’d better find a way, that he didn’t dare not cover the bet. He spoke about his intention of tapping some wealthy friend of his for a loan. And perhaps he did inveigle that poor chap into handing over at least some of the cash he had to pay to those nasty little playmates of his. Obviously, there was no way I could find out.”

  “Maybe I missed something. But I’m still having trouble doping out why the shootings would contribute to Shawna and David’s decision to keep the love affair under wraps.”

  “Don’t you see? No? Well, I’ll explain. Edward has been killed, and if John were to meet a similar fate before Uncle Victor dies, Shawna and I would inherit. Now, say Shawna and David marry, God forbid—although at present this seems to be what they have in mind—David Hearn would then share in Shawna’s
portion of Uncle Victor’s fortune. And incidentally, believe me when I tell you that a mere fraction of my uncle’s assets is enough to entice someone lacking moral fiber into behaving in a . . . let’s call it an unfortunate manner. Particularly one of David Hearn’s station.”

  “Station”? Why, you little snob, you! But aloud, all I said was “Oh?” accompanying this with one of my most lethal looks.

  Either impervious to or unaware of my reaction, Scott went on. “At any rate, if David is still up to his ears in debt, and if it should come out that he’s now a step closer to a great deal of money, I presume that the police would regard him as a very attractive suspect. And even if he has managed to straighten out his finances, David’s fondness for gambling is, in itself, a flashing red light.”

  Still fuming at Scott’s use of the phrase “one of David Hearn’s station,” I inquired spitefully, “And you really feel that David would be satisfied with having access to only Shawna’s half of the estate?”

  Scott turned slightly green now, a color that was not nearly as flattering to him as the earlier pink. “I haven’t really given that any thought, but I don’t imagine he’d have any recourse. Shawna would never allow anything to happen to me.”

  I refrained from countering with something like, “Maybe it would be out of her control.” Which not only would have been very not nice but, I could see, was totally unnecessary, my host’s complexion putting a lie to the assurance of his words.

  Only seconds after this, however, he brightened. “Say, has it ever occurred to you that it was your client who killed Edward and that he only pretended to be attacked in order to divert suspicion from himself?” Obviously my host was no longer able to tolerate the idea that if David Hearn was, in fact, the perp, it could put him—Scott—at considerable risk. So now he was grabbing on to someone else—someone who, from his point of view, was a less ominous villain.

  “No, it has not,” I answered firmly.