He chuckled. “You’re getting better at this, Shapiro, although your delivery could still use a little work. But anyway, I have this premonition that any second you’re going to tell me why I have the pleasure of hearing from you after almost a year.”
“A year? Has it been that long?”
“You bet your tush, it has. And I think you’re well aware of it, too. So? Out with it.”
“Umm, I understand you’re heading up the Sharp case.”
“Please, Desiree, say that the widow didn’t call you in on that one.”
“She didn’t.”
“Praise be to God,” Fielding mumbled.
“I was hired by John Lander to investigate the attempts on his life.”
“Damn!” he exclaimed. And after a few seconds of recovery time: “Some attempts! I can’t imagine Lander’s persuading you to swallow that garbage; I’d have thought you were smarter than that. And incidentally, it’s attempt. Singular.”
“No, there have now been two of them. Plural. Somebody tried to run over John on Saturday.”
“Yeah, sure they did. And I’m Peter Cottontail.”
“Listen,” I informed Tim firmly, “we really have to talk. Whenever it’s convenient for you, of course.”
“That’d be a year from next January. Seriously, Shapiro, I’m bogged down these days. Murder seems to be getting more and more popular around here. Besides, you don’t want to talk to me. You want me to talk to you. And there’s nothing I can give you right now.”
“That’s not true; I do have information that would interest you. Why don’t I stop by first thing tomorrow morning—I just need a few minutes, I swear—and we can go over things while we’re having our coffee and donuts? My treat, naturally.”
Fielding considered this briefly before muttering his consent. “All right. Not that I believe for a second that you have anything worthwhile for me, but I suppose I might as well get you off my back. Tomorrow’s no good, though. Make it Wednesday at eight-thirty. And about the donuts, be sure you bring the kind with—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Chocolate icing and walnut sprinkles. You got it. And thanks, Tim. Uh, by the way, I probably should be committed for this, but I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
The conversation ended with a parting grunt from Tim.
As we clicked off, I found myself smiling broadly. After which, with a real sense of accomplishment, I went back to my typing.
Chapter 14
By the time I got home from work, I was starved. I’d had a BLT at my desk around one, but it was a skinny BLT. The thing is, though, I was way past due for another visit to D’Agostino’s. Fortunately, rummaging around in the freezer paid off. Hidden under a package of stale hamburger rolls was a container of leftover marinara sauce with mushrooms. So I cooked up a little spaghetti to go with it and prepared a great big salad. Later I discovered that there was also a respectable portion of Ha¨agen-Dazs macadamia brittle to accompany my coffee—a relief under any circumstances but especially when you take into account my talent in the coffee-making department.
At seven o’clock I tried David Hearn at his apartment. I was a bit surprised to find him in, and it crossed my mind that Shawna might be with him.
“This is Desiree Shapiro,” I said, “and I—”
“How are you, Mrs. Steinberg?” David joked.
Well, normally the “Mrs. Steinberg” thing would have gotten a chuckle out of me. Even if I had to force it for the sake of politeness. But at present I was hardly interested in pleasing this person that I’d begun referring to in my head as “David the Deceitful.” My attitude, I’m sure, stemming from the fact that I’d found him so likable when we met. And it wasn’t merely that I felt betrayed. Looking back, I believe that what I really held against David Hearn was the fact that he verified my own piss-poor ability to assess people.
You’d think, though—wouldn’t you?—that by now I’d be used to having my judgment refuted. Well, apparently not. But recognizing that it was pretty much mandatory to conceal my hostility if there was any chance of persuading the guy to see me, I managed to muster up a fairly neutral tone. “I’d appreciate it if we could get together again.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” The voice seemed even higher to me than it had during our initial conversation. Which undoubtedly had more to do with my mind-set than with David’s vocal cords.
“No, I’m not. Something’s come up, and I think we should discuss it.”
“I’ve already told—”
“It would be to your benefit.”
He didn’t respond immediately, and when he did, he was obviously wary. “Is anything wrong?”
“There are a couple of matters we ought to clear up, that’s all—and as soon as possible.”
David’s “All right” was grudging. “But not tonight. I was just walking out when you phoned. How about after work tomorrow?”
“Fine.”
“I could be at your apartment around six, unless you think it would be better to do it in your office. Where is it located, by the way?”
I gave him the address.
“That would be more convenient for me—if it’s not a problem for you.”
“It’s no problem at all,” I assured him.
“Well, see you tomorrow then.” He sounded about as enthusiastic as if he’d agreed to go to a hanging—his own, I’m talking about.
It was maybe five minutes after we hung up that I reminded myself that, for one reason or another, practically all suspects lie to you. But very few of them are guilty of murder.
And in spite of my displeasure with him, I realized that I was hoping David Hearn wasn’t one of the few.
About a quarter of an hour later, as I was getting a pencil out of my desk drawer, the phone rang. Automatically, I began to reach for it, pulling my hand back just in time. Pop Gould! I just knew it.
He’d left a message on my machine yesterday, while I was at Scott’s. “So, Desiree, when are we gonna have dinner?” the thin little voice had inquired. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re a busy individual. But you gotta eat, don’tcha? A person could get sick not taking in no food. You call me back—okay?—and let me know when you wanna make it.”
Understandably, I hadn’t returned the call.
Pop, however, didn’t appear to be holding this breach of etiquette against me. Because, sure enough, here he was again.
“You prob’ly didn’t get my message on Sunday—even Harriet says so. Listen, what would be so terrible if you had dinner with me this once more before I leave for Florida? Your work—whatever kind you got—will wait for you, believe me. You’ll find that out for yourself when you get to be my age—which is in the seventies.” I couldn’t help smiling at that one. “We could go anywheres you say. Anywheres,” he repeated plaintively. “And . . . umm . . . Desiree?”—I heard a sharp intake of breath now—“I’ll even pay.”
I want you to know that after listening to that recording, there was a moment when I actually considered spending a little time with Pop again—and in public, no less. I mean, to offer to pick up the tab, well, God knows why, but he had to be practically desperate for my company. And he was an old man. And he wasn’t what you could call a bad person. Not really. Besides, before long he’d be off for Miami—and out of my hair for months.
Then it all came rushing back to me: his whining. His pettiness. His outrageous remarks. His even more outrageous behavior.
Have you completely lost your mind? What are you, some kind of masochist? I demanded of myself. Why not take the easy way out, and just jump off a bridge or something?
The generous impulse evaporated in an instant.
It was close to nine o’clock when I heard from Ellen.
“Are we on for Wednesday—I hope?”
“Wednesday?” I parroted.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” she accused. “Wednesday’s the day we were going to start shopping for your dress.”
“Oh, Ellen, I�
�m afraid I won’t be able to make it.” (Notice there was no acknowledgment that our tentative plans had flown out of my head.) “But there’s absolutely no reason for you to be concerned. We have plenty of time to look around.”
Now, since Mike—her fiancé—had entered her life, my niece had become much less of a worrywart than she once was. Lately, though, with THE BIG DAY looming in front of her, the old Ellen had begun to resurface. After all, this was May, and the wedding wasn’t until December, for crying out loud. Yet here she was, already getting agita over my gown. Still, maybe this was only natural—with me being the matron of honor, I mean.
“I don’t want you to have to settle. And the longer you wait, the more likely that is,” she said stubbornly.
Okay. If it would make her feel better, I’d start schlepping around to the stores early. “We’ll do it soon,” I told her. “Honest.” And now, to move her off my attire, I quickly brought up Ellen’s favorite topic: her intended. I made the mistake, however, of asking how he was doing at the hospital.
It took a good five minutes for her to relate how all his patients and every one of his coworkers at St. Gregory’s adored Mike, offering up a whole slew of anecdotes to drive home the message. And then, her voice filled with more pride than ever, she reported that Dr. Beaver, who was sort of Mike’s mentor—as well as St. Gregory’s top cardiovascular surgeon—had just yesterday lavishly praised both her fiancé’s technical and people skills. She appeared to have memorized the extensive comments verbatim, too, which she was delighted to share with me.
I was in the process of nodding off when Ellen finally ran out of Mike material. She switched over to the Lander investigation without so much as a pause. “What’s been happening with your new client?”
My brain must have left on vacation, because, foolishly, I started to fill her in. When I got to the part about John’s latest close call, she interrupted with a shriek, “I told you!”
“What did you tell me?”
“How dangerous this case was.”
Well, as you know, I’m not above employing a little white lie now and then if it’s to accomplish something worthwhile—like putting a loved one’s mind at ease, for instance. So as I had when Ellen and I talked about that first attempt to do away with my client, I presented her with a more palatable version of this latest incident, too. “Listen, Ellen, John could have been mistaken about the driver’s aiming for him. Maybe whoever was behind the wheel simply lost control of the car.”
I might as well not have spoken.
“You’ve got to be extremely careful, Aunt Dez. Promise me.”
Oh, we’re starting that again. I pounded my forehead a few times before obliging. “I promise.”
“All right, then. And incidentally, you don’t really believe that—about John’s being mistaken—do you?” Ellen demanded.
“I certainly consider it a possibility.”
“If that’s so,” she countered, “I should be the private investigator in the family, not you.”
Well, so much for trying to spare her.
The phone was barely back in its cradle when John called.
“The police were just here—that Sergeant Fielding and his partner. They had a search warrant. The two of them tore apart everything that wasn’t nailed down—and some of the things that were. But don’t ask me what they were looking for—they weren’t exactly communicative. Listen, you don’t . . . you don’t think this means they’re about to arrest me, do you?”
“No, it doesn’t necessarily mean that at all. I’m meeting with Sergeant Fielding on Wednesday, though, and I’ll see what I can find out.” And now, sounding exactly like an Ellen clone, I said, “In the meantime, swear to me you’re looking out for yourself.”
“Believe me, since Saturday I’m practically on red alert.”
I could only hope this was the truth—and that his vigilance would be enough.
Chapter 15
The “Hi, Dez,” with which Jackie welcomed me on Tuesday morning was subdued, almost shy, in fact. “I love that dress,” she said of this two-piece blue linen I’d worn to the office at least half a dozen times—and for which she had never before professed any particular affection.
Now, when Jackie has to stretch like that to deliver a compliment, it’s her version of burying the hatchet. So it was safe to assume we were friends once more.
A short while later, back in my cubbyhole, I was just beginning to transcribe the remainder of my notes when I heard a subdued little cough.
“Umm, do you think you could spare me a couple of minutes?” Jackie inquired tentatively on getting my attention. She was hovering in the doorway.
“Sure.” Turning back to my computer, I clicked on the screen saver, then swiveled in her direction. She was still hovering in the doorway.
“Listen, I could stop by again if this isn’t convenient.”
Was this really Jackie? My Jackie? “Don’t be silly. Come in and sit down, for heaven’s sake.”
“Thanks.” She took the few steps required to reach the single available seat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured as soon as she deposited herself in it. “The way I acted yesterday? Well, it had nothing to do with you.” And in a whisper: “Nothing at all.” Following which she covered her eyes and burst into tears.
Jumping up, I rushed over and knelt beside her chair. “What is it, Jackie?”
She shook her head in response.
I placed my hand on her arm and gave it a squeeze, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do. I’m absolutely pathetic when it comes to that sort of thing.
In a minute or so the sobs were reduced to snuffles. I continued to crouch there in acute discomfort (but after all, my good friend was in crisis), as Jackie dug into her skirt pocket and, extracting a handful of tissues, pressed them into service. “I apologize, Dez,” she murmured, managing a small, wan smile. “I didn’t mean to drown you. I thought I was all cried out by now.”
“Please, Jackie. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s about—Derwin.” She ran her fingers through her short blondish-brown hair, and her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. “I think we may be finished.”
Oh, God! Of course, over the years Jackie and Derwin had had their little spats (some of them not really so little), but never had any of them shaken her up like this. “What’s happened?” I forced myself to ask.
“Before I go into that, I think it might be wise for you to try standing up.”
Good idea. But easier said than done. I mean, hoisting myself to my feet was no walk in the park, even with Jackie lending assistance. During this brief but laborious struggle, it crossed my mind that maybe I should enroll in an exercise class one of these days. But once I was settled in my chair again, I concluded that there was no need to overreact. After all, how often did I find myself in that position anyway?
“He’s seeing someone else,” Jackie began, grabbing a handful of skirt fabric and twisting it as she spoke.
“You’re certain of this?”
She nodded.
“How do you know?”
“Last Thursday we met for lunch. I got to the restaurant ten minutes early, but Derwin was already seated at the table when I arrived. He didn’t see me walk in because he was facing the front entrance, and I came in through the side door—I’d taken a shortcut through the bar. Anyhow, I crept up behind him, and I was just about to put my hands over his eyes when I realized he was talking on his cell phone. He—”
“Derwin has a cell phone?” It just popped out. I mean, you have no idea how out of character it is for Adam and Eve’s most tightfisted descendant to spring for something so . . . so nonessential.
Jackie frowned. But whether her irritation stemmed from my interrupting her narrative or whether she (correctly, I suppose) interpreted my outburst to imply some criticism of Derwin, I wasn’t certain.
“I’m really sorry, Jackie,” I put in hastily. “That kind of surprised me, though. I didn’t realize Derwin wa
s into any of that tech-y stuff.”
“One of his nieces gave him the phone for his birthday,” she informed me brusquely. “But as I started to tell you, I stood there waiting for him to finish the conversation. I heard him say, ‘Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Gale.’ And then this Gale must have made some comment because Derwin said, ‘I’m looking forward to it, too, Gale.’ Evidently the woman threw in a couple of more words, because after that he chuckled—it was that insipid sort of chuckle men use when they’re trying to impress some little chippy.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
“They think it makes them sound sexy. It makes them sound idiotic, if you ask me,” Jackie huffed.
“Have you considered that this Gale could be an old friend?—a platonic friend, I’m talking about.”
“I think Derwin would have mentioned that to me. He probably would have said something like, ‘You’ll never guess who I just spoke to.’ But forget that he didn’t. Forget his actual words to the woman even. His voice was strange. I don’t know, kind of secretive—I really can’t explain it. Also, the entire time he was on the phone he was staring at that front door—keeping an eye out for me, I’m sure.”
“What was his reaction when you confronted him—or didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t. As soon as he hung up I retraced my steps and went back out through the bar. Then I reentered the restaurant through the front door. The truth is, the thing that was uppermost in my mind that afternoon was concealing from Derwin that I’d overheard the conversation. I was just so afraid of precipitating anything—can you believe it?”
“How did he behave toward you during lunch—any differently?”
“Not really. But that meal was sheer hell for me. I had to act as if there was nothing wrong—either that or have it out with him. Which I wasn’t up to dealing with. I assure you, though, that if it wasn’t for two-and-a-half good-sized glasses of merlot, I never could have managed to keep up the pretense.”
Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair Page 9