Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  Anyhow, there were eight or ten people seated in the white room, most of them juggling plates and cups. Although the atmosphere could hardly be described as festive, there was none of the deep pall you might have expected to accompany the death of someone so young—particularly as the result of foul play. I guess subdued would be the best word for the mood here.

  “Some place, huh?” Lou whispered as we watched Marilyn make her way over to a blonde woman perched on the arm of a plump, oversized chair. The blonde was speaking earnestly to an unusually good-looking man with wavy silver hair, who was occupying the chair next to her own. As soon as there was a break in the conversation, Marilyn bent down to talk to the woman. And after a brief exchange, she returned to the foyer.

  “Sheila—Mrs. Vincent—asked if you’d mind waiting for just a little while. She won’t be long.” She indicated Sheila and the silver-haired gentleman with a toss of her head. “It’s business, and he has to drive back to New York in a few minutes,” she explained.

  “No problem,” Lou told her. “We’re in no hurry.”

  “Follow me,” Marilyn instructed, leading us to a small, oak-paneled study down the hall and to the left of the foyer. “Make yourselves comfortable. Oh, can I get you something? There’s baked chicken and a delicious Black Forest ham. Also half a dozen different salads. We have freshly brewed coffee, too. And all sorts of nice, gooey cakes.”

  Now, after overdoing it like that at Wendy’s—I’m not sure if it was the second large order of fries or the generous slab of cherry pie that eventually did me in—I knew there wasn’t even a micron of available space left inside me. So I politely—and wisely—declined. Lou must have been equally overstuffed, because he responded in kind.

  Marilyn had already begun to walk away when he said, “We’ll want to talk to you a little later, Ms. Vincent.”

  “Well, I’m here,” she threw out amiably over her shoulder.

  It was a man’s room. “Clubby,” I suppose you could call it. Lou immediately settled into a high-backed brown leather chair, while I took myself on a short tour.

  Going over to the large desk under the window, I made a cursory examination of the collection of wood-framed photographs here. Then I made an equally brief inspection of the English hunting scenes that adorned the walls. (Call me a Philistine, but they all looked pretty much the same to me.) After which I took a seat on the brown Chesterfield sofa, facing Lou.

  Seconds later the door opened.

  The first thing I noticed about Sheila Vincent was her perfume—a heady, sophisticated scent that preceded her into the room. Then Sheila herself entered. While not exactly beautiful, she was certainly very striking—a tall, slim woman, most likely in her early thirties, with full lips and cool, wide-set green eyes. She was elegantly turned out in a black long sleeved, vee-neck, wool sheath with black suede pumps and large circular silver earrings, her shimmering blonde hair becomingly drawn back into a chignon.

  I immediately became conscious of my own essence of Aqua Net hair spray (which I’d spritzed on with total abandon for the second time that day at the police station and which completely overpowered the small dab of Ivoire I’d applied earlier). And why had I decided to leave my trench coat in the car, anyway? It was certainly in decent condition, and at least it would have covered this ugly old beige suit of mine.

  The truth is, Sheila Vincent made me feel dowdy. And this did not induce me to be very kindly disposed toward her. What I hated most about the negative response she had instantly elicited in me, however, was that it wasn’t even her fault.

  She introduced herself, extending her hand to me.

  “Detective Shapiro.” I rose and shook the outstretched hand. It was warm and dry. Da Silva was right about the Vincent marriage, I decided, taking my seat again. I mean, if this woman was in mourning, I was a Swiss yodeler.

  Lou, who had gotten to his feet as soon as the widow put in an appearance, took the hand she was now holding out to him. He clasped it in his for a moment before clearing his throat. “We’ll try not to keep you long, Mrs. Vincent. I know this must be . . . uh . . . it’s a very difficult time for you.” It was obvious my temporary partner wasn’t exactly at ease with this aspect of his duties.

  “That’s all right. I realize you have a job to do,” she graciously assured him. “Please sit down.” As she joined me on the sofa, I noted sourly that, unlike yours truly, Sheila Vincent didn’t have to position herself close to the edge in order for her feet to touch the floor.

  “We—uh—that is, we now believe your husband may not have been shot during a simple robbery attempt, as we first assumed,” Lou said. Sheila’s eyebrows shot up in a question, but she refrained from asking it, waiting for him to go on. “Somebody has come forward who claims to have seen the perpetrator sitting in his car, parked across the street from your husband’s office, hours before the shooting occurred.”

  “Then you think . . . ?”

  “The way things are shaping up, we could be talking about premeditated murder,” he answered gently. “It seems as if the killer was biding his time until your husband left work.”

  Sheila appeared genuinely stunned. “Can this person—this witness—identify the man who shot Frank?”

  “Unfortunately, he didn’t get a good look at him. Incidentally, was it usual for Mr. Vincent to stay at his office until eight o’clock?”

  “Only on Wednesdays. That was his late night. Quite often he didn’t finish up until seven-thirty or eight on Wednesdays—sometimes later.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your husband?”

  Sheila shook her head. “There wasn’t anybody. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

  I joined in the questioning for the first time. “Your husband had no enemies? There was no one with even a minor little grudge against him?” Lou appeared startled by the sound of my voice. I think he’d almost forgotten I was there.

  Sheila turned toward me. “Not that I know of.”

  I tried again. “How about his practice? Did he have any partners?”

  “No, there was only Frank and a receptionist.”

  “I understand your husband was in politics.”

  “Well, I guess you might say that. He was a candidate for the state assembly last year. But he lost.” It seemed to me that Sheila Vincent’s expression was rather satisfied when she delivered this piece of information. “There was talk that the party wanted him to make another run for office, however.”

  “Politics can be a pretty rough game,” Lou interjected here.

  “I imagine that’s true. But my husband wasn’t successful enough to incur resentment. Also, he was careful not to step on any toes. Frank could be very charming, Lieutenant Hoffman. Ask anyone.”

  I seized on her words. “You said your husband could be very charming.”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. And, no, he wasn’t always. In fact, Detective Shapiro, he was a bastard, and I had been planning to divorce him. I hope that doesn’t make you suspect I hired a hit man or anything. Believe me, I didn’t want Frank dead; I only wanted him out of my life.”

  Lou leaned forward. “Just when was it that you left the country, Mrs. Vincent?”

  “I flew to Paris a week ago tomorrow. It was supposed to be a two-week stay.”

  “You weren’t at your hotel for a couple of days, though.”

  “That’s right. I revisited some of the places I’d been to when I was at school over there. That was a while ago, of course, but I still have a few good friends in Paris. And on Tuesday I got together with two of them, Josie Benoit and Claire Wu”—she interrupted herself—“Claire’s a transplanted Chinese lady, if you’re wondering. Anyhow, we drove out to the Loire Valley to Amboise, Blois, Chambord—places like that. We had a wonderful time. And then on Thursday evening I returned to my hotel in Paris and learned about Frank.”

  “We’re going to have to verify this with the other women.” Lou’s apologetic tone made me want to barf. I me
an, men—even policemen, who should definitely know better—can be such idiots when they’re around an attractive female.

  “I understand. I’ll get their phone numbers for you. In fact, why don’t I do that now?” the widow offered with a kind of noblesse-oblige nod of her sleek blonde head in Lou’s direction.

  “Nice woman,” he murmured, mostly to himself, when she left the room. Then perhaps slightly daunted by my scowl, he added, “Seems to be, at any rate.”

  Sheila returned a few minutes later with a piece of note paper, on which she’d apparently written the information Lou required. She handed him the paper, then said she’d be happy to show him the airline ticket stubs, too. “I don’t know just where I put them, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem digging them up.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Lou responded.

  Of course it won’t. I mean, would those ticket stubs prove she didn’t fly home on Wednesday and, after shooting her husband, turn around and fly right back to Paris?

  And now she moved to sit beside me again.

  “Did your husband have a jealous nature, Mrs. Vincent?” I asked the instant her bottom made contact with the sofa cushion.

  “No, not at all.”

  “I hope you won’t mind my next question, but we’re talking about a homicide here.”

  “Yes, of course. What is it you want to know?”

  “Has there been anyone else in the picture lately?”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  “I meant for you,” I explained quietly.

  Sheila met my eyes. Her voice was low, but firm. “Absolutely not.”

  “It would be understandable, considering the circumstances.”

  “How many times do I have to say this? There’s nobody else.” Her tone remained even—although it was undoubtedly a struggle to keep it that way.

  “If there is another man,” I persisted, “that’s still no indication you had anything to do with your husband’s death.”

  “There is-n’t an-y oth-er man,” she pronounced, slowly enunciating every syllable.

  I had to admire the woman’s control. “Okay, sorry. I believe you, but I had to check. I hope you can appreciate that.” And consummate actress that I am, I produced what I’m certain was a most engaging little smile.

  Sheila’s lips curved upward in response, but you could tell that her heart wasn’t in it.

  “I think we should let Mrs. Vincent get back to her friends,” Lou said then, the suggestion very possibly having been prompted by the tenor of this last round of questioning. And now he addressed Sheila. “There might be one or two things we’ll want to go over with you in a couple of days.” He was sounding apologetic again.

  “Certainly,” she agreed, getting to her feet. “Just give me a call.”

  “In the meantime, I wonder if you would tell Ms. Vincent we’d like to see her for a few minutes.”

  “I’ll ask her to come right in.”

  The moment Sheila Vincent closed the door behind her, Lou glared at me. “About as delicate as a buzz saw, weren’t you?” he said in a tight voice. “Listen, if she is having an affair, you didn’t really think you could badger her into confiding in you, did you?”

  “I pressed too hard, huh?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I pressed too hard,” I admitted meekly. “I guess I got carried away.”

  “From where I sat, Mrs. Vincent was being honest with us. She certainly didn’t pull any punches as far as her feelings for her husband.”

  “You’re right, only—Look, Lou, I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I get these intuitions about people.” (I did not, of course, mention that my intuitions have rarely proved out.)

  “And—?”

  “Okay, the woman appeared to be straight with us and sincere and all that, but—I don’t know—my gut is telling me that maybe she’s too straight and sincere.”

  “Whatever that means,” Lou retorted, frowning.

  “It means that I don’t quite trust her. And I don’t even know why.”

  Chapter 8

  “How long have you and Mrs. Vincent known each other?” Lou began. He was addressing Marilyn Vincent, who presently occupied the spot her friend had just vacated.

  “Since college. And don’t even try to get me to tell you how far back that was,” she joked.

  My kind of girl. “Then you went to school in Paris, too,” I said.

  The sound that emerged from Marilyn’s throat was more like a guffaw than anything else. “Hardly. Sheila went over to France to study at Le Cordon Bleu. Me? I can just about cook a can of Campbell’s soup. The two of us met right here in the United States. We were roommates at Vassar.”

  “I assume this was before she married your cousin,” I continued.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You introduced them?”

  “I guess you could say that. Although definitely not by choice.”

  Lou looked at her inquiringly. “I think an explanation might be helpful there.”

  “Well, Sheila and I were partners in a catering firm at the time. Divine Dining, we called it—that was the first name that occurred to us, and it stuck. Mostly because we were so busy with all the other things it takes to start a new company that we never seemed to have the time to come up with anything better. Anyhow, we—”

  “Wait,” I broke in. “Didn’t you just say you can’t cook?”

  “That’s right,” Marilyn responded. “I was the business end of the operation. That’s my one genuine talent: business. Anyhow, it actually turned out to be a very fortunate pairing. Sheila was able to devote herself to turning out all these great dishes, while I kept an eye on the bottom line and took care of the nuts-and-bolts stuff. Plus, I did most of the serving at the affairs, as well as helping out with the less creative kitchen duties. I wound up being a real whiz at some of them, too. You should have seen me hack the head off a trout.” She concluded the boast with a grimace.

  “You were telling us about introducing Mrs. Vincent to your cousin,” Lou put in now, attempting to get her back on track.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. I have a tendency to run off at the mouth—as you can see. Anyhow, we were catering a cocktail party—this was around five years ago—and, damn it, Frankie happened to be one of the guests. He came into the kitchen to talk to me for a couple of minutes, and, of course, Sheila was there, too. Well, like it or not, I had to introduce them. The next day he phoned me for her number.”

  “He was smitten immediately?” I asked.

  “I’d hardly call it that. If the truth be known, Frankie wasn’t really that interested in women. I’m not implying that he was gay or anything, but he was too consumed with getting ahead in life to make many detours, even for sex.

  I always suspected his libido was kind of underactive anyway. At any rate, he was aware I’d gone into business with my college roommate. And he knew that her folks were wealthy. Sheila’s father is president of the Bernardsville Bank and Trust Company. But supposedly the real money in that family goes back generations.”

  “Then it was primarily the money that attracted him to Mrs. Vincent?” This, from Lou.

  “You bet it was.” Marilyn opened her mouth to say something further, then promptly closed it. You could tell from her expression that a thought had just occurred to her. A couple of seconds later she said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before, so I admit to being kind of ignorant when it comes to police interrogations. Still, I can’t for the life of me see what any of this has to do with the fact that Frankie was shot during an attempted robbery.”

  “We no longer believe your cousin’s death was the result of a mugging,” Lou responded quietly. “There’s every likelihood this was premeditated murder.”

  Marilyn’s hand flew to her mouth. “My God,” was the muffled response. “Oh, my God.” After a moment the hand came away. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  �
��Not so far.” And Lou proceeded to explain about a witness’s seeing the car across the street from Vincent’s building at least two hours before the homicide took place.

  “Maybe this was a case of mistaken identity,” Marilyn suggested hopefully.

  “I’m afraid we pretty much have to discount that possibility,” he responded. “Your cousin was facing the killer when he was shot, and they were only a couple of yards away from each other.”

  “But it was dark out by then, wasn’t it?”

  “Mr. Vincent was standing directly under a light.” There was anguish on Marilyn’s face now. Squeezing her eyes shut, she moaned, “My poor uncle. This will destroy him. Does he know yet?”

  “No. Mrs. Vincent was the first member of the family to be informed about this, and she was told only a short while before you walked in here.”

  “I’m going to see him this evening—my uncle, I mean. The man’s eighty-six years old and in very poor health. As it is, ever since he heard that Frankie was dead, he’s been saying he wants to do away with himself. So just imagine how he’ll feel when we break it to him that someone actually planned to murder his son. Christ! The whole universe revolved around his Franco. That’s what he called him— Franco. Uncle Gino spoiled Frankie rotten from the second he was born. Of course, this was a big part of the problem. And—Oh, shit! I’m doing it again. Sorry. I talk enough when I’m not this upset. But now . . .”

  “There’s no reason to apologize. I’ve been known to talk a blue streak myself on occasion,” I told her. “Look, do you want my advice?” I didn’t care to risk a recommendation that I mind my own business, so I offered hurriedly, “If I were you, I wouldn’t say a word to your uncle about the shooting’s being premeditated. At least, for the present. Why don’t you wait a while and see how everything shakes out? By then, if your family should decide to tell him what actually happened”—and I had to wonder why on earth they would—“there’s at least a chance that the shock of his son’s death will have worn off a bit. So he may be in a better position to deal with it.”