Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Teaser chapter
Raves for Selma Eichler and the Desiree Shapiro
mysteries . . .
Murder Can Singe Your Old Flame
“Highlighting Eichler’s witty dialogue and charming
New York setting are the often hilarious
characters.”—Publishers Weekly
Murder Can Spook Your Cat
“A very realistic character . . . the mystery is
creatively drawn and well plotted.”
—Painted Rock Reviews
Murder Can Wreck Your Reunion
“A fast-paced, enjoyable read.”—The Mystery Review
“Another wildly hilarious mystery.”—The Snooper
Murder Can Stunt Your Growth
“A poignant and satisfying conclusion . . . the real
pleasure of this book is spending time with Desiree
Shapiro . . . just plain fun to read.”—I Love a Mystery
Murder Can Ruin Your Looks
“Highly entertaining . . . witty insights and warm-hearted
humor.”—Joan Hess
Murder Can Kill Your Social Life
“P.I. Desiree Shapiro has a wonderful New York way
with words and an original knack for solving
homicides. Intriguing and fun.”
—Elizabeth Daniels Squire, author of
Whose Death Is It, Anyway?
Also by Selma Eichler
Murder Can Singe Your Old Flame
Murder Can Spook Your Cat
Murder Can Wreck Your Reunion
Murder Can Stunt Your Growth
Murder Can Ruin Your Looks
Murder Can Kill Your Social Life
eISBN : 978-1-101-16573-7
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, February 2000
Copyright © Selma Eichler, 2000
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://us.penguingroup.com
To Puck, whose contributions to this book
went far beyond anything I had a right to expect.
I’m very grateful.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I couldn’t not thank Major Alan G. Martin of the New York State Police, who once again was so generous in sharing his expertise on law-enforcement matters—in this instance preventing me from making at least a half dozen mistakes.
My thanks, too, to both Stan Madorsky and Julian Scott, whose knowledge in other areas was so helpful to the storyline.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I goofed.
At the time this book was written I was unaware that there actually is a town called Riverton in New Jersey. It is not, however, the Riverton, New Jersey, depicted in this story, which exists only in my imagination.
Chapter 1
Yes, I know I’d have spared myself a lot of grief if I hadn’t accepted the case in the first place. Nobody has to tell me that. Even then, I realized I should have avoided it any way that I could. Especially since life was being exceptionally kind to me at the time.
I was doing okay professionally for a change, having just come off two fairly well-paying investigations. Not that I was in a position yet to spring for a comfy little getaway in the Bahamas, you understand. But I could certainly afford to splurge on a good pair of earrings (earrings being a particular weakness of mine). Maybe even with a diamond chip—a very small chip, of course. And without being late with the rent, either. Plus, one of those two recent clients of mine had even said something about recommending my services to a friend of his, a biggie with an insurance company. Which, whether he followed through or not, was making me feel pretty upbeat about the future—for the moment, at any rate.
Things were even going well on a personal level. Okay, so maybe Al Bonaventure wasn’t exactly my type—physically, I’m talking about. But it didn’t seem to matter that much lately. I liked to think of this as a sign that, after all these years, I was finally maturing. I mean, Al has an awful lot going for him. He’s a genuinely caring person, with a very good mind and a terrific sense of humor. Plus he’s attentive; the man actually listens when you talk. (And how many people of either gender can you say that about?) And just so you don’t get the wrong idea, he’s also far from unattractive—a great, big teddy bear of a man most women would find pretty appealing. Those, that is, fortunate enough not to have my inexplicable penchant for skinny, needy-looking men. You know, the kind who give the impression that what they require most in this world is a little TLC and a good home-cooked meal. Anyway, at last I seemed able to get beyond this nurturing thing of mine and appreciate the man
y admirable qualities Al had to offer. So as you can see, it wasn’t as if I was that anxious to pad my bank account or fill up my dull, drab days. The fact is, I was feeling better about the status quo than I had in I-can’t-remember-when. Then why, you might ask, would I want to rock the boat and get involved in an investigation like this one?
I’ll be honest with you. I wound up in this mess for two reasons: (a) I was going to be very generously compensated, and (b)—and far, far more important—I am the closest thing to a chicken you’ll find outside a henhouse.
But look, would you have had the nerve to turn down Vito da Silva?
Chapter 2
My first thought when he came to see me that day was that there was a certain elegance about the man. Around fifty or so, Vito da Silva was medium-tall and fairly slender, with a thin face, a longish, aristocratic nose, and a full head of dark brown hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples. Later on in our meeting, during those infrequent moments when he deigned to smile, I saw that he even boasted a nice set of large, very white teeth. On this unusually warm, mid-November afternoon he was coatless, dressed in a beautifully tailored navy suit and crisp white shirt with a navy and red paisley tie.
Believe it or not, initially I had no idea who he was. His name hadn’t rung a bell when he gave it to me on the phone that morning. Probably because notorious mob bosses don’t normally play much of a part in my life. Or any part, actually. Then, too, da Silva wasn’t in the news all that often. For someone in his profession (if you want to call it that), he managed to keep a fairly low profile. Still, his face did look familiar. I just didn’t instantly recognize it as the one that stared back at me from the television screen every once in a while. He didn’t give me time to make the connection, either.
“You are Mrs. Shapiro?” There was no disbelief in his voice when he asked the question. He seemed simply to be seeking confirmation. And he didn’t lift an eyebrow or drop his jaw when I answered in the affirmative, either. Which instantly earned him a couple of points with me.
You know, I just can’t understand why a private investigator’s never growing past five-two should be cause for astonishment. Even if said short person has a head of glorious hennaed hair, besides, and weighs a smidge or two more than those leggy, anorexic females you see portraying PIs on TV. But anyhow, it’s rare when establishing my line of work doesn’t get me one of those “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding” looks. It’s also refreshing.
“I am Vito da Silva,” the man informed me, holding out his hand. I stood up and extended my own.
After the amenities, da Silva took a seat next to my desk—the only one available in the pathetically tiny cubbyhole I call an office. Crossing his legs, he rested both hands on his right thigh. I observed appreciatively that his black tasseled shoes had been buffed to a mirror shine. (I have a tendency to notice shoes. I guess that’s understandable, though, being that I’m built so close to the ground.)
“What can I do for you, Mr. da Silva?” I asked. “You can find a killer. That is what you can do for me.” He spoke softly, with a slight formality, his voice close to a monotone. And there was a barely perceptible Italian accent.
“Whose killer?”
“Somebody shot my good friend—my protégé, Mrs. Shapiro.”
“Call me Desiree—please.”
He nodded. “Shot up his face so badly, I have been told, that he no longer resembled a human being.”
“I’m sorry—very sorry—about your friend. But what about the police? I’m sure they—”
“I have no faith in their ability. Listen, Desiree, Frankie Vincent lived in Riverton, New Jersey. It is not a very large town, so they do not have much of a police force. Not that I have any confidence in the police here in Manhattan, either. Or any place else, if you want to know the truth.”
Maybe it was the expression on his face or maybe it was the look in his gray eyes—which with this pronouncement had turned cold enough to give you hypothermia—but there was something very unsettling about this da Silva. Even frightening. Then it hit me. Of course! He’s that New Jersey mobster! I shivered. Oh, Christ! This, I need. And why would someone like da Silva come to someone like me for help, anyway?
Apparently the man could read minds. “I am not foolish enough to put one of those big-name private detectives on this, however. All of them swear to you they will be handling things themselves. Then they have their flunkies do the work. And under those circumstances, I would have no idea of the quality of the investigation I would be getting.”
“Who referred you to me?” I asked through parched lips, my mouth having gone bone dry the instant I became aware of the identity of my visitor.
“One of my”—he hesitated for a moment, and I had the impression he was searching for an acceptable term—“business associates contacted an acquaintance of his—an attorney—for a recommendation. Gilbert is the attorney’s name.”
“Elliot Gilbert?”
“That sounds right.”
Elliot Gilbert is one of the partners in Gilbert and Sullivan (don’t you love that name?), the firm that rents me my office space. And he’s probably the straightest person you’d ever meet. So I had absolutely no doubt that he was unaware as to who actually wanted this recommendation.
“Gilbert told my associate he could not do any better than you. According to him, you are the best. And my associate informs me that this Gilbert should know.”
I might have gone so far as to blush at these words of praise—if da Silva hadn’t immediately followed them with the kicker: “Also, my associate was led to believe that you have the time to do what I require. Which is to devote yourself exclusively to this investigation—to finding Frankie’s murderer.”
Thanks a heap, Elliot! This was really demeaning—the business about my having that much time, I’m talking about. And it certainly didn’t help that it was true—at present, anyhow. For an instant I bristled. Then I realized that there was something a lot more critical than my ego to be concerned about here. If I didn’t want this cold-eyed mobster as a client, I’d better convince him right now that Elliot was off target regarding my availability.
“Uh, about my being free to handle this for you,” I began, “I just accepted a big case from an insurance company, and I—”
“Get someone else to take care of the insurance company.”
Funny. The quiet, even voice that until a couple of minutes ago I’d regarded as rather pleasant now sounded positively menacing to me, all the more so for its lack of inflection. “I’m a one-person agency,” I managed to croak.
“Have you ever heard of subcontracting? Farm the thing out,” da Silva ordered, his tone still not much above a whisper. “Listen, someone murdered a friend of mine. And nobody harms my friends without paying the price for it. Do you understand this?”
And then obviously misreading the expression on my face—which must have been a reflection of my anxiety in general—he added, “But there is no cause for you to worry. I have no intention of dealing with Frankie’s killer myself. I assure you that this will be left to the courts. You see, while my close relationship with Frankie was not generally known, enough people were aware of it so that I would immediately be suspect if anything were to happen to his murderer. For this reason, among others, to take any action myself—or even to authorize that any action be taken on my behalf—well, this would be extremely foolish. And you will find, Desiree, that I am not a foolish man.”
I like to think that if I weren’t in such a state just then, I would have realized on my own that there was a possibility da Silva might look to avenge Vincent’s death. At least, I hope I would have. This much I did recognize, however: Whatever genuine grief he was feeling, da Silva also regarded Frankie Vincent’s murder as a personal affront. And that could spell real trouble for me if I agreed to conduct this investigation. After all, who knew how he’d react if I failed to come up with the killer? Uh-uh. There was no way I was going to get involved in this. I inhaled de
eply to calm myself (it didn’t help), then tried again. “Mr. da Silva, I’m really sorry. But I made a commitment, and I—”
“I am sure you can work something out,” he responded with a perfunctory wave of his hand. “In the meantime, I suppose I should tell you a little bit about Frankie Vincent—the victim. He was young, not much past thirty-four years old, and he was a chiropractor. But not your average chiropractor. Frankie was a healer. I swear to you, the boy could perform miracles. Are you following me so far?”
“Yes.” I mean, what was there to follow?
“I always had terrible problems with my back,” da Silva continued. “I must have been to every top man in the country, anyone who was mentioned as possibly being able to do me some good. And I am not only speaking about chiropractors, either. I saw orthopedists and osteopaths. I went for acupuncture three separate times. I even tried one of those holistic quacks. I had to travel all the way to L.A. to see him, too. Then someone told me about Frankie. He said Frankie had done wonders for him. Well, at this point I was fed up with running all over the place and getting no results. But after thinking about it, I figured, what do I have to lose? This was the smartest decision I ever made in my life.”
“Frankie helped you?”
“He saved me.”
“When was all of this?”
“More than three years ago. And I have been a different person ever since that boy put those healing hands of his on me. Oh, sure, once in a while the back still acts up—nothing major, just a few twinges. A visit to Frankie, though, and I am one hundred percent again.” There was a lengthy pause, then da Silva murmured ruefully, “I should have used the past tense there, shouldn’t I?”
“Uh, yes. I suppose so.”
“At any rate, I was very grateful to Frankie, and I sent him a couple of patients. He called to thank me, and we got to talking, and after that we began having dinner together occasionally. Pretty soon we were doing it on a more frequent basis. Over the years I really got to know Frankie Vincent, and I became extremely fond of him. Do you understand?”
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite Page 1