Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  “Thanks,” Marilyn murmured, grateful for the reprieve. “I think that probably would be the best way to handle things.”

  “You were telling us a few minutes ago about your cousin’s interest in Mrs. Vincent’s money,” I reminded her then. “One thing I don’t understand: Knowing that she was so wealthy, why hadn’t he ever asked to meet her before?”

  “He had no idea what she looked like, and I chose not to enlighten him as to how stunning she is. I also didn’t volunteer that she’s intelligent and poised and classy. Or that her family is extremely well connected socially—although that’s probably something he surmised. Care to know why I did my best to keep him in the dark?” This was obviously a rhetorical question, considering that Marilyn wasted no time in supplying us with the answer. “Because those are the things Frankie was looking for in a wife. Did I say wife? What he really wanted was a political advantage.” A loud snort emphasized her disgust. “You see,” she went on, “it was Frankie’s goal for a long, long time to enter politics one day.”

  “Did you ever let Sheila in on your feelings about him?”

  “I tried to—more than once. But she kept saying she didn’t want to hear about it, so I finally shut up.”

  “You seem to have disliked your cousin a great deal,” Lou interjected here.

  “I did. Listen, I know it’s a sin to speak ill of the dead, but Frankie was selfish and petty and ruthlessly ambitious. You know what really made me gag, though? He was so charming that no one seemed to notice.”

  “But some people must have caught on to what he was actually like,” Lou countered. “He couldn’t have pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes.”

  “Well . . . I am exaggerating. But he did manage to fool an awful lot of people. Frankie was a very clever man. He could play you like a violin.”

  “Did you know that Mrs. Vincent was planning to divorce him?” I asked.

  Marilyn didn’t miss a beat. “No, but I’m not exactly shocked. And good for her.”

  “Are you saying this for any reason in particular, or are you just speaking in general?”

  “Oh, I’m saying it for plenty of reasons in particular. For one thing, Frankie made Sheila give up the catering business almost the instant they walked down the aisle. Then for another, when he was running for the state assembly, he had her practically chained to this place, whipping up goodies for his endless political get-togethers. The only way she could have done any writing was standing at the kitchen stove.”

  “Writing?” Lou repeated.

  “Uh-huh. Since Frankie refused to let her go out and work, Sheila decided she’d occupy herself with the kind of work she could do at home. So she started to channel her creative energy into composing cookbooks. But then that had to go on hold, too, so she could help Frankie get into office. It was only after he lost the election that he permitted her to start writing again. She’s on her third cookbook now. Did you happen to notice that good-looking gray-haired guy she was talking to when you came in?” Marilyn’s glance went from my face to Lou’s and then back again.

  “I sure did,” I answered with a grin.

  “That’s Morgan Sklaar, Sheila’s publisher. But what I was going to say was that even after she was able to pursue her own interests, things weren’t exactly ginger-peachy between her and Frankie. He was hardly a doll to live with. Everything always had to be his way. He dictated where they went, what they did, who they did it with . . . That stupid all-white living room? Frankie’s choice. Sheila was dying for chintz and cabbage roses.”

  The more I heard, the more surprised I was that Sheila Vincent hadn’t dumped her lout of a spouse a long time ago. And I said so.

  “I think that at first she was determined to make a go of it. Maybe she even thought she could change him,” Marilyn conjectured. “Later she probably decided to wait until the election was over. But right after that her father had a stroke, and I know his health was uppermost in her mind. I imagine she didn’t want to risk upsetting him with the news that her marriage was kaput.”

  “The father’s all right now?” Lou asked.

  “Pretty much. He still isn’t a hundred percent, but even months back Sheila was telling me how much better he was doing. She must have been holding off on the divorce, though, until she was absolutely sure he could handle it okay.”

  “I’d have thought Mrs. Vincent would have mentioned something to you about wanting a divorce,” Lou remarked. “You do seem to be pretty close to her.”

  “We’re extremely close. But Sheila’s always been a very private person. Besides, although we’re in constant touch, we don’t actually spend much time alone together. Between her writing and my job—I work at an ad agency now—we’re both pretty tied up during the week. And then weekends Frankie is—was—always around, so there weren’t that many opportunities for a heart-to-heart.”

  I had another question. “Do you have any idea if there were other good friends Mrs. Vincent might have confided in?”

  “Well, she was sort of tight with this woman who lives across the street—Doris Shippman. But if she didn’t say anything to me about splitting up, there’s no way she would have talked to her about it.”

  “You know,” I remarked, “from what I’ve seen of your friend today, she seems like a pretty sharp lady. So I’m having trouble comprehending how she could ever have married someone like your cousin in the first place. Particularly since a woman who’s as attractive as Mrs. Vincent is must have had lots of opportunities to hook up with a more suitable man.”

  “As I said, Frankie was charming,” Marilyn answered. “Probably one of the most charming men you’d ever meet. Also, Sheila was terribly vulnerable in those days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was a pause before Marilyn murmured reluctantly, “Oh, it was years ago.” Then, after an even lengthier pause: “I guess she wouldn’t mind my telling you about it at this point, though. You see, Sheila had broken an engagement a number of years before she met Frankie. It was a really devastating experience, too, and it took a long, long while before she’d even agree to go out with anyone else. But then when Frankie came along, well, I must say his timing was terrific.”

  I wanted to get this straight. “You said she broke it off?”

  Marilyn flushed all the way to the roots of her hair. “Umm, that’s not exactly how it happened.” I could hear her take in her breath before she confessed a few seconds later—and with obvious discomfort—“Ron was . . . he was the one who actually ended it.”

  “Why was that—do you know?”

  “Look, Detective Shapiro, I’m aware that you have to get all the facts, but I can’t imagine how something that occurred practically in the Dark Ages could have anything to do with Frankie’s murder.”

  “Neither can I. Not at the moment, anyway. But there was a motive for that murder, and right now we don’t have a clue as to what it was—or who ended your cousin’s life. So we’re gathering every bit of information we can, and hopefully, we’ll start making some sense out of things. But we need for you to cooperate. Okay?”

  “I still don’t see what—”

  “Just bear with me,” I cajoled. And then when Marilyn nodded unhappily I put the question to her again. “Why did Mrs. Vincent’s fiancé end the engagement?”

  She sighed. “All right. Ron Whitfield ran off and married Sheila’s older sister the day before the wedding.”

  This news prompted me to attempt a whistle, but a pathetic nothing little sound was all I was able to produce. “Are they still married?”

  “Separated. He moved out a few months ago. But if you’re thinking Ron killed Frankie so he could get back with Sheila, you’re way off base. Sheila would never take up with him again. Not after what he did to her.”

  “Probably not. But you can’t really be sure.”

  Marilyn’s chin jutted out to there. “I know Sheila,” she insisted.

  “Are you certain she’d tell you if she had started seeing
him again?”

  For a fraction of a second Marilyn hesitated. Then she said emphatically, “Believe me, there isn’t a chance Sheila would have anything more to do with Ron.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Vincent might be romantically involved with someone else?”

  “She isn’t like that.”

  “What about Frankie? Even if he wasn’t big on romance or sex or whatever, it’s possible, isn’t it, that he could have met someone who really appealed to him? And if that occurred, from what you’ve told me about your cousin, I don’t think that anything as insignificant as a marriage license would have kept him from pursuing the woman.”

  “Listen, Frankie put more ladies in heat than I can count. But even when he was still single, he’d just slough them off. Except maybe on some rare occasions—probably when he got a really bad itch. In those instances, though, one or two dates seemed to be enough to take care of the itch. But once he got married, I can’t imagine Frankie’s having an affair. And it has nothing to do with any marriage license, either. It’s because he was so hell bent on making it in politics that nothing else mattered very much to him—certainly not enough to risk putting his future in jeopardy. Forget it,” Marilyn concluded firmly. “There’s no way Frankie would have even considered playing around. Especially since he was never into the pleasures of the flesh that much to begin with.”

  Marilyn certainly sounded as if she knew what she was talking about, all right. Still, that didn’t mean she had as much insight into her cousin as she was convinced she did. Which is why I wasn’t ready to abandon the idea of a spurned lover or a jealous husband’s doing Frankie in. At least, not yet. At any rate, there was a brief silence as I thought all this over, with Lou apparently similarly occupied. Marilyn wasted no time in using the vacuum to advantage.

  “Listen, if there’s nothing else you want to ask me . . .” She was already on her feet and edging toward the door when she spoke.

  Chapter 9

  We didn’t arrive back at the station house any too soon. It was a quarter to six, and Ross, our second witness, could be dropping by any minute.

  As Lou and I made our way down the long room toward our respective offices, I glanced around me. These were entirely different people from the cast of characters I’d seen working here this morning. Some of them turned in our direction when we passed, acknowledging Lou with a nod or a wave or a “How ya doin’?” But if they knew—or cared—about the identity of the full-figured (an adjective I much prefer to some others I’ve been saddled with) redhead who was trotting along beside him, it didn’t show.

  We had reached the far end of the room when I remarked, “Well, at least we learned one thing today.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “The victim was charming.”

  “You can say that again.” Lou shook his head, a bemused expression on his face. “And again and again and again.” Then just as he was about to enter his office, he began to laugh.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, really. I was thinking about Marilyn Vincent inching toward that door. Not that she was happy to get away from you or anything.”

  “Whaddaya mean from me? You were no slouch in the questioning department, either, as I recall.”

  “Yeah, but you were the one who put her feet to the fire with your ‘Why did Mrs. Vincent’s fiancé break up with her?’ You made the poor woman feel like a traitor, having to give up something like that about her best friend.”

  “Listen,” I retorted, “did you happen to notice her expression when you told her we’d like her phone number in case we needed to speak to her again? And just as she had one foot in the hall, too, no doubt figuring that she was home free by then.”

  “I still say you were the one who really rocked her.” And with this, Lou patted me on the back in a spontaneous gesture of camaraderie. Almost as though we really are partners, I thought. It was the first truly unguarded moment we’d shared. And I had the fleeting idea the man might actually be starting to accept me.

  Ha!

  “See you in a little while,” I said. I made a brief stop in my cubicle to deposit my coat and attaché case, then headed for the ladies’ room. A minute or two after I returned, Lou appeared in my doorway waving a pink message slip.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ross phoned this afternoon. He can’t make it tonight—something about his wife and dinner. He said he could come in Monday evening. All right with you?”

  “Why don’t you see if you can persuade him to do it tomorrow morning instead?”

  “Hey, tomorrow’s Sunday, in case you’ve forgotten, and I’ve got the day off. I promised to take my kid to the Devils’ game. And I have no intention of disappointing him.”

  “Devils?”

  “Hockey. The Devils are a New Jersey hockey team,” Lou apprised me condescendingly.

  “That’s no problem, Lou. I can see the man myself. After all, you’ve already met with him. I thought I’d talk to some of the Vincents’ neighbors, too.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Well, I’d really like to begin looking into things.”

  Walking into my space now, Lou sat down on the chair across from me. “You have begun,” he observed dryly. “Besides, don’t you think questioning the neighbors is something we should do together?”

  “Well, of course, if you can make it, but if you already have plans with your son . . .” The look I was getting was hardly filled with partner-like affection. “Naturally, I’ll write out a complete report for you,” I added quickly. “You’ll have it first thing Monday morning. And if I learn anything really worthwhile—which I tend to doubt—I’ll call you right away and leave a message on your answering machine.”

  Lou’s sustained scowl made me feel I should justify myself. “The thing is,” I said—and quite reasonably, I thought—“if I don’t try to catch people at home tomorrow, it’ll have to wait until Monday evening, after the majority of them get back from work. Unless . . .” My voice kind of trailed off; I had had second thoughts about the alternative I’d been about to propose.

  “Unless what?”

  “Well, we could always do it tonight, if you’d like,” I suggested timidly.

  “No, I’d not like,” he snapped. “It’s Saturday night, for chrissake. Most everyone’ll probably be out. Even in Riverton people have lives, Desiree. Not only that, but I’m bushed. I’ve been putting in fourteen-hour days all week, working a double homicide and a bank robbery, in addition to the Vincent case. Anyhow, those other cases got reassigned so I could devote a hundred percent of my time to this Vincent thing, which seems to take priority over everything else around here. What I’m trying to say is that this is my investigation, too. And, yeah, I know you’ve been brought in by some big politician or whoever. And I know I’m supposed to cooperate with you—something I’m trying my damnedest to do, believe me. But I have to tell you, I resent your taking over and trying to call all the shots like this.” And now he shifted his eyes to my desktop, picked up a pencil, and very purposefully snapped it in two.

  I caught myself unconsciously rubbing my neck. I mean, I don’t have to tell you, do I, what he’d have preferred to get his hands on just then.

  At any rate, I was all set to respond to this mean-spirited behavior with an appropriately nasty comment (although I hadn’t figured out what it would be yet), when I realized that if I were in Lou’s position, I’d probably be no more kindly disposed toward me than he was. So employing my most conciliatory tone, I said, “I’m not calling any shots, Lou. It’s only that I’m anxious to get things moving, like I said. And it’s always possible their neighbors—particularly that close friend of the widow’s—might have something interesting to tell us about the Vincents. But if you feel so strongly about this, why don’t I just meet with Ross tomorrow, if he can make it. Since you’re already familiar with his information, that shouldn’t be any big deal. I’ll leave the neighbors until after the weekend, when you’ll be available. Okay
?” Before he had the chance to respond, I tacked on—but mostly to reassure myself—“After all, it’s not as though any of them witnessed the shooting and might forget the details. So what difference does it make if we question them a day or two later?”

  For what seemed to me like a very long time, Lou just sat there, staring down at the broken pencil on the desk. At last he muttered, “Oh, hell. I’m sorry, Desiree. I didn’t get to bed until two o’clock this morning, and I always start acting like a first-class jackass when I don’t get my beauty sleep. Look, I’ll call Ross right now and try to get him to come in tomorrow, preferably in the a.m.”

  “I really appreciate—”

  “And after we’re finished with Ross, we’ll do the neighbors.”

  “But your son—?”

  “I’ll just give him the tickets. You want the honest-to-God truth? He’ll be happier going with one of his friends.”

  Chapter 10

  Driving home that evening, I thought about the widow Vincent.

  Had I been even a little bit fair to the woman?

  Granted, she had this—well, call it a presence—that made me feel as though my pantyhose were drooping and my roots were showing and my beige suit wasn’t even fit to be buried in the backyard. But this was my problem. Sheila Vincent hadn’t said or done a thing to generate this insecurity in me. And even if she had, that wouldn’t justify my readiness to paint a blood-red “M”—for murderer—on her forehead.

  After all, she was honest enough to admit—and without even the slightest bit of prodding, too—that she’d been planning to unload the guy. And why would she have to resort to murder, anyway? Apparently, there wasn’t any financial consideration to dissuade her from terminating the marriage legally—exactly as she claimed she’d been intending to do. Remember, she was the one who came from all that money.

  Still, my intuition told me . . .

  No, I could forget my stupid intuition. It was about as trustworthy as my glorious hennaed hair. (Which tonight, thanks to the most infinitesimal amount of humidity in the air, insisted on going its own way, leaving me looking positively bizarre.)