Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  Lou Hoffman produced a tepid smile, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He seemed to be appraising me.

  “Uh, it’s Mrs. Shapiro, Chief Hicks,” I corrected. “But I hope you’ll both call me Desiree.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll let you two get down to business. Lou, you’ll show her the office she’ll be using.” And he turned on his heel and left.

  The lieutenant stood up and walked around the desk to shake my hand. He was, I noted, about medium height and not particularly good looking. Now, I don’t mean to imply that he was homely or anything; he just wasn’t especially attractive. His sandy-color hair was quite curly—kinky, really—and starting to recede. His nose was a little hooked and went off to the side a bit—I suspect it had once been broken. And just below where the blue shirt met the gray pants was a slight, but indisputable, paunch. I figured Lou Hoffman to be in his forties, probably his late forties.

  “Don’t mind the chief,” he told me. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just that it’s tough for John—an outsider’s being called in on the investigation. But let me have your coat. And grab a seat.”

  “You don’t have to bother about the coat. I’ll just toss it over the back of the chair.”

  “Okay,” he said. The short stack of folders presently occupying one of the chairs was expeditiously dumped on the floor. “Neatness counts, huh?” he remarked lightly, returning to his desk.

  I plunked myself down on the newly available seat and shrugged out of my trench coat. Then I turned to Lou. “What about you? How do you feel about having to work with an outsider—a PI?”

  “The truth?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I’m not too thrilled about it,” he admitted, his neck reddening. “If that’s the way it has to be, though, I can adjust.”

  “I’ll do my best not to make the adjustment too difficult for you.”

  “I suppose that’s all I can ask.” And then in a purposeful voice: “Well, let’s get to it. For starters, why don’t I bring you up to date on our investigation.”

  “Good.”

  “I was just reviewing everything myself a couple of minutes ago,” Lou said, opening the manila folder in front of him. Briefly, he gave me a rundown of the facts, mostly expanding slightly on what I already knew. There was, however, one addition.

  “I think we may have a handle on the murder car,” he told me. “We got a report that a Toyota Camry was stolen a few days ago. Same color, same year as the vehicle our witnesses reported seeing. I’ve been attempting to contact the owner—I’ve already left two messages on the man’s machine—but if I don’t hear back by this afternoon, maybe you and I should drive by his house.”

  “Fine,” I agreed. And close on the heels of this: “You haven’t spoken to the widow yet, I take it.”

  Lou shook his head. “She just flew in from Europe yesterday. There was a delay in notifying her of her husband’s death. It seems she went on a little side trip from Paris to the French countryside for a couple of days, and nobody knew where she was staying. I’ll—we’ll—be going over to her place later to talk to her.”

  I nodded. “Do you know the woman?”

  “No.”

  “What about the victim?”

  “Another no. Riverton may not be Manhattan, Desiree, but it’s not Grover’s Corners, either. We’ve got a fairly large population, for your information.”

  “Vincent was involved in politics,” I retorted a shade defensively. “I thought you might have see him on TV.”

  “Never laid eyes on him.”

  “Uh, listen, do you think I could talk to those two witnesses you have? It isn’t that I don’t think you’ve gotten all you could from them, it’s just that—”

  Lou spared me the rest of it. “It’s okay. I imagine I’d feel the same way in your shoes.” Then somewhat grudgingly: “I’ll make a couple of calls and see what I can do about setting things up. In the meantime, let me take you to your space.”

  We didn’t have to go any farther than right next door.

  The space I’d been allotted was cramped enough to make me feel at home. The major differences between this office and my own, however, were that this one was positively pristine, most likely having been hastily set up only yesterday in anticipation of my uncelebrated arrival. Plus two chairs had been squeezed in here—along with a beat-up desk, a lamp, a phone, a computer, and the usual supplies. I was pleased to see that some thoughtful soul had even provided a couple of coat hangers.

  Lou left me to get settled in, showing up again about fifteen minutes later, wearing his suit jacket. “I got a call from the owner of that Toyota Camry,” he announced.

  “And?”

  “I think it’s even more likely that this is the car we’re looking for.”

  “Why? What did he say?”

  “That it was heisted from in front of a liquor store around eleven p.m. Tuesday—the night before the shooting. It was his own fault, too. What we’re dealing with is some young wiseguy who was dopey enough to leave the keys in the ignition. Anyhow, he said he only reported the theft because his father insisted. The father’s the one who got him to return my calls, too, by the way. It seems that this punk kid isn’t too keen on cops. He says he knew all along we’d never find his car. According to him, cops are only good for one thing: hassling people. Anyhow, he was having his friend drive him around to look for the car, and they finally came across it late yesterday in a vacant lot. I arranged to have the vehicle dusted for prints this afternoon, but I’m not very hopeful. The little bastard’s had it back for almost a day, so if there were any prints, he’s most likely obliterated them.”

  Then abruptly Lou said, “Okay, why don’t you go powder your nose.” And in response to my startled expression: “Lottie Schmidt is at home waiting for us—she’s the woman who was on the scene when the victim was shot. She told me a few minutes ago to come right on over. You do want to use the ladies’ room before we leave, though, don’t you?”

  I replied that this might be a very good idea.

  Chapter 6

  We drove over to Lottie Schmidt’s apartment in Lou’s car. It was hardly a comfortable ride. And I’m not speaking physically. While neither of us did much talking, Lou’s resentment toward me was only too apparent. I mean, I could feel it.

  Lottie, Lou said, lived only a few blocks from Hedden Circle, where the shooting took place. “There are just a couple of office buildings at the Circle—that whole area is being rebuilt,” he informed me. “The killer picked a pretty good spot for doing the deed. Things get pretty quiet around there after six p.m. Most people have already gone home for the day.”

  “I’m surprised the Schmidt woman wasn’t nervous about walking her dog on a street like that,” I commented.

  Lou chuckled. “Wait’ll you get a look at that dog.”

  Lottie Schmidt was a tall, angular woman with a no-nonsense manner. She was approaching sixty.

  Trevor Schmidt was a short, stocky pit bull who also had a no-nonsense manner. He was around three.

  And he terrified me.

  The thing is, there are dogs—which I love—and then there are pit bulls—which, as far as I’m concerned, are a whole different story. I’m just not able to relax until I’ve put some distance between me and any pit bull I happen to meet up with. And the greater the distance, the better. So at my request, and over his extremely vocal protests, Trevor was hauled off to the bedroom, where he had to content himself with frequent and unproductive lurches at the securely closed door.

  “What did you forget to ask me?” Lottie put to Lou after settling herself on the sofa.

  Lou gave her a nice, friendly smile. “Nothing, really. It’s only that Ms. . . . uh . . .”

  He was obviously having difficulty with the introduction, so I helped him out. “Detective Shapiro.” (Well, I was a detective, wasn’t I?)

  “Yeah,” Lou concurred. “Detective Shapiro will be participating in the investigation from now on, and I
’d like for her to hear about Wednesday night in your own words. Would you mind?”

  “I suppose not. But I wasn’t much help when I talked to you Thursday. Or to those two young cops who showed up at the scene on Wednesday night. So don’t expect any great shakes today, either. I only know what I know.” She shifted her focus to me “What do you want me to tell you about?”

  “I’d really appreciate it if you could go over everything again—from the beginning.”

  “All right,” she answered tersely, looking none too pleased by the request. “Trevor and I were walking down Hedden Circle when I saw that fellow Vincent. He was heading into the parking lot across the street from the Lacy Building. A second man was following Vincent into the lot, maybe six or seven feet behind him. It appeared to me the second man—the killer—called something out, because Vincent turned around to face him. An instant later Vincent was on the ground. It happened like that.” She snapped her fingers to illustrate. “Then, before I’d even taken in that he’d been shot, the killer was bending over Vincent’s body.”

  “About how far from the parking lot were you at the time?” I asked.

  “I was on the other side of the street. Just a few feet further, and I’d have been directly opposite the two of ’em.”

  “And the shooting took place around eight o’clock?”

  “Around. But I could still see what went on, if that’s what you’re getting at. The lot’s lit up pretty good, and anyhow, Vincent was standing under a light.”

  “About the second man’s leaning over the victim . . . any chance he was trying to help him?”

  Lottie stared at me like I was missing a marble or two, after which she snorted. “Not on your life. He was trying to rob that Vincent fellow, that’s what he was doing. Listen, it was him that did the shooting. Had to be. There wasn’t another soul around.”

  “Okay, what happened next?”

  “I started yelling bloody murder. Scared the daylights out of the guy, too. He jumped up like someone’d stuck a hot poker up his behind and ran over to his car—it was parked on the street just outside the lot—and then he pulled outta there like greased lightning.” Her face had a smug expression now. “Still think he was trying to help?”

  I chose not to hear the question. “Let me ask you this. Do you have any idea if the killer could have managed to steal anything before you began to scream?”

  “Like I told the lieutenant here and that Sergeant Peterson, it’s possible, but I doubt it.” She shook her head in disgust. “My fault he got away. If I’d been thinking straight, I would’ve sicced Trevor on him, and that would’ve been that.”

  “You didn’t have time to do much thinking,” I reminded her.

  “I should have reacted quicker,” she insisted stubbornly.

  “Maybe it’s lucky you didn’t,” Lou observed. “The man had a gun. He might have wound up shooting Trevor. And maybe you, too.”

  But Lottie wasn’t buying this, either. “You don’t know Trevor.” There was pride in her voice.

  “I understand you phoned 9-1-1 from your cell phone,” I said then.

  “Correct. Never go out without it.”

  “Now, you told the police that you didn’t get a good look at the perpetrator. But is there anything you can tell us about him?”

  “Listen, I only saw him from the side and back. And he was pretty covered up.”

  “What do you mean, ‘covered up’?”

  “He had on this long, tannish coat. A raincoat, it was. Also one of those wide-brimmed rain hats. Probably wanted to hide his face.”

  “Was he tall or short? Thin or heavy?”

  “I don’t think he was too tall. And I’d say the build was average. But I may be wrong about those things. It was all so quick.”

  There were a couple of other matters I wanted to get straight. “According to your statement, the killer was holding an object in his hand. You weren’t certain it was a gun, though.”

  “Well, I saw him point something at Vincent, and a second after that Vincent was sprawled in the dirt, dead as yesterday.”

  “But you claim you didn’t actually hear any shots.”

  “The gun must have had a silencer.”

  “The perpetrator’s car—you’re sure it was a 1986 Toyota Camry?”

  “Sure I’m sure. Hedden Circle is well illuminated. And I noticed that it was exactly the same car my nephew Eric drives. Only tan. Eric’s is blue.”

  “A pity you didn’t get the license plate number,” I remarked casually.

  “I was across the street, you know,” Lottie retorted. “A little far away to read numbers unless you’re Superman. Especially with that old Camry flying by like it had wings.”

  “Yes, of course,” I mumbled, properly chastised. “One thing more. Had you ever met Frank Vincent?”

  “I had not. Though when the police told me the name, it did seem familiar.”

  Lou enlightened her. “You may have heard it or read it somewhere. Vincent was involved in politics.”

  “That must be it, then.”

  “Well, we’re about through here, I guess,” I said now. “If you think of anything else, you’ll give us a call, though, won’t you?”

  “I won’t think of anything else. I’ve already said all there is.”

  At this juncture I was about to get out of my chair—and then something occurred to me. “Uh, just one thing more.”

  “That rings a bell,” Lottie informed me expressionlessly.

  “Yes, I know,” I murmured. “But please bear with me another minute, okay?”

  She inhaled deeply, letting the air slowly out of her lungs. “Go ahead.”

  “You’re absolutely positive the perpetrator was a man?”

  “It was a man,” she replied firmly. A moment later, however, her voice was minus some of its conviction. “Of course it was a man.” A pause. “At least, that’s how it looked to me.”

  Chapter 7

  Back in the car, Lou made a production of checking his watch. “It’s one-thirty-three,” he notified me, “which is past my feeding time. How about you?”

  Well, it was past my feeding time, too. Way past. In fact, I was concerned that, even as we spoke, my stomach might be revving up to voice its complaints. “I guess I can eat.”

  “What kind of food do you like?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Burger or—”

  He cut me off. “Burger suits me just fine.”

  There was a Wendy’s only a block away, so a short while later we were eagerly devouring burgers and fries and sipping Cokes. When he’d polished off his food, Lou—sheepishly, it seemed to me—announced that he’d be having another burger and another order of fries. To make him feel more comfortable about this (I swear that was the reason), I forced myself to join him in his gluttony.

  Now, until this second go-round we’d exchanged very few words. So mostly to initiate a conversation, I asked Lou what he thought about Lottie Schmidt’s statement.

  “She wasn’t able to give us much to go on,” he answered tersely.

  “She’s very credible, though. The murder probably went down exactly as she said.”

  “Yeah. There’d be no question about robbery being the motive if not for Ross—he’s our second witness. He noticed—But you’ll be talking to him yourself in a few hours. I did tell you I got in touch with Ross before we left for Lottie’s, didn’t I?”

  “Uh-uh, I don’t believe so.”

  “Well, anyhow, the guy’s agreed to stop by this evening—somewhere around six.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “By the way,” I put in then, “who’s this Sergeant Peterson that Lottie mentioned? The detective who was originally supposed to be working the case with you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is he upset that he’s no longer involved?”

  “Not with the amount of pressure there is to solve this thing.” And now, a fond look crossing his face, Lou ad
ded, “Pete’s never been your real motivated kind of guy.”

  “And you are?”

  “I suppose I am, in a way. Anyhow, I try to stay focused on the investigation and not let all the other bullshit get to me.”

  I’m not exactly sure how it came about (okay, I might have grilled him just a little), but soon afterward I learned that Lou was a widower with an eighteen-year-old son. And I volunteered—although he didn’t seem at all anxious for the information—that I was a widow. Only with no dependents. Unless you consider emotional dependents—in which case Ellen could probably qualify. (Or, at least, she would have before Mike came into her life. These days, believe it or not, she’s not nearly as emotional or as dependent as she once was.)

  At any rate, it was well after two when we finished eating and left Wendy’s to pay Sheila Vincent a visit.

  The woman who stood in the doorway was slightly less than medium height, with frizzy, reddish-blonde hair and large brown eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. She had a figure that most members of her own sex would probably regard as chunky, but which the majority of men, I suspect, would characterize as voluptuous. She favored us with a restrained but pleasant smile.

  “Mrs. Vincent?” Lou asked, producing his shield.

  “No, I’m a friend of hers, also her cousin by marriage. The name’s Marilyn—Marilyn Vincent.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Hoffman, and this is Detective Shapiro. We’re investigating Mr. Vincent’s death.”

  “Sheila told me you’d be over this afternoon. Come in, please. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  Marilyn admitted us into an impressive, marble-tiled foyer, then excused herself for a moment, which gave Lou and me an opportunity to look around us.

  Leading directly from the foyer and almost completely visible from our vantage point was a spacious, all-white living room. For once I could almost appreciate my own living room, boringly—and practically—furnished though it was. I mean, I actually pictured some of the ice cream dribbles and gravy splatters and wine sloshes that had so often decorated it—and then been sopped up without leaving a trace.