Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

by Selma Eichler

  “Yeah. If you can.”

  Andrew Shippman was pleasant enough—until I said I was with the Riverton police. (Which wasn’t exactly a lie.) And then cordiality flew right out the window.

  “I’m sorry,” he told me curtly when I requested a meeting, “but I couldn’t possibly see you this evening. I have no idea what time I’ll be able to get out of here—I’m up to my ears in work. Tomorrow’s no good, either. Besides, Detective, I wouldn’t be of any help to the police. I don’t know a thing about Frank Vincent’s murder. I didn’t even know Vincent very well.”

  I responded that I, too, was sorry. Nevertheless, it was important he talk to us. It would only take a few minutes, I assured him—lying through my recently scraped and polished teeth.

  Shippman started to protest, but I spoke right over the words. “Don’t worry, though,” I said, drowning him out. “If it’s impossible for you to see us in your home, my partner and I can stop by your office. Or maybe you’d prefer to come down to the station . . .”

  Apparently both these alternatives were even less attractive to Shippman than the prospect of our paying him a house call. So in the end he agreed to the house call. It was arranged for nine p.m. the following night.

  I had intended to spend the rest of the day transcribing my notes on the investigation—which I had yet even to touch. Of course, I knew I’d barely be able to put a dent in them in a single afternoon, since I work at a speed that would embarrass your average snail. The thing is, I was never what you could characterize as a whiz-bang typist, to start with. Plus, I can’t seem to resist attempting to take in the information while I’m transcribing it, and this slows me down even more. (But, yes, I am able to walk and chew gum at the same time, thank you.)

  Anyhow, turning on the computer, I vowed that I’d restrict myself to the typing part today. That way I’d cover a lot more ground.

  The intercom buzzed before I’d even placed my fingers on the keys. Chief Hicks would appreciate seeing Lou and me in his office.

  It was a brief meeting, during which Hicks did a lot of grousing about the report Lou had just turned in on the Vincent investigation. Then he asked me if I thought we were making progress.

  “If you want to know if we have a line on the killer yet, the answer is no. But we are gathering the facts, and I’m hopeful that when we’re through talking to everyone, things will begin to make some sense.”

  “I’m hopeful, too,” he responded. “This case is top priority. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I, Miss Shapiro?”

  His tone was about as warm as the inside of an igloo. I was so resentful of his attitude that I felt it would be more prudent to stick to a nonverbal reply. Gnashing my teeth, I shook my head.

  He shifted his focus to his lieutenant. “One more thing, Lou. Much as I’d have liked to keep a lid on this mess a little longer, I’ve already had calls from two of the newspapers. Seems they’ve started hearing things about premeditation, and they want us to confirm. I promised Higgins at the Gazette you’d get back to him in the morning. This new guy at the Newark Star-Ledger will be trying you again tomorrow. Give them as little as you can get away with, and whatever you do, don’t mention the involvement of Miss Shapiro here. I told them you’re heading up a team of detectives, so just leave it at that. The entire state doesn’t have to know that a couple of our more ‘influential’ citizens don’t consider the Riverton police capable of conducting an investigation without the assistance of some—” He broke off, scowling, then settled for “without outside assistance.”

  The focus returned to me. “Sorry, Miss Shapiro,” he informed me in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “but it looks like you’re still going to have to wait a while for your fifteen minutes of fame.”

  The minute we were out of there, Lou said, “I don’t expect you to believe this, Desiree, but John’s one of the good guys. It’s just that it’s tough for him to tolerate these political types interfering with our doing our jobs.”

  “You mean by bringing me in here.”

  “That’s only part of it. The chief’s really under the gun right now. I don’t remember the department’s ever having this kind of pressure before.” And in a lighter tone: “I’m beginning to think old Pete had the right idea in wanting out of this one.”

  After that little chat with Hicks, it was pretty much impossible for me to attempt to get any work done. For about ten minutes I sat there and seethed. Then Lou came by.

  “Guess who just checked in?” But before I could respond: “You’re a hundred percent right. She was profusely apologetic. Said the dentist had two emergencies that morning and kept her waiting for over an hour. Then on the way home she was involved in a traffic accident. She was calling from a pay phone—she’s still not back at the house. She suggested we do it this evening at seven. Okay with you?”

  “Sure.” I was looking forward to having another talk with the widow. After all, she was my prime—actually, my only—suspect.

  “Listen, if you have nothing pressing right now, you might want to take a look at this.” Lou handed me the newspaper he was holding.

  “What’s that?”

  “Last Friday’s Riverton Gazette, our local weekly. I didn’t even realize it was still in my office. It just turned up under a pile of folders.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “Check out the article on page five. I figured you might at least get a chuckle out of it. Something tells me you could use one right now.”

  I was touched. Also, surprised. I mean, this was a really thoughtful gesture, especially since it was extended to someone the man wanted to erase from his life as soon as possible. “Page five, you said?”

  “Yep.” And then he added ruefully, “You know, there was a time—and not very long ago, either—when you could practically guarantee that the mugging death of a prominent citizen would make the front page of the Riverton Gazette. Not any more, though. Nowadays things like that aren’t all that uncommon.” Seconds later his manner changed abruptly. “Well, gotta get back to Pete’s sandwich. His wife made him liverwurst again. So as a friend, I consider it my duty to help him out.” And grinning, he affectionately patted the small paunch just below his belt before he turned on his heel and left.

  I soon saw how right Lou was. I mean, Riverton certainly seemed to be afflicted with its share of violence. Just like everyplace else.

  Page one of the newspaper was devoted to a robbery at a local McDonald’s that left a teenage employee dead and four customers and a second teenage employee wounded—the employee, critically. There were three separate articles on the crime, including one lauding the Riverton police for so quickly tracking down and apprehending the “alleged” perpetrators. A good-sized photograph of a trio of smirking young suspects being taken into custody accompanied the McDonald’s story—which continued on page two with profiles of the underage thugs, along with comments from their relatives and neighbors. You know the kind of stuff I mean: “It has to be a mistake. Jimmy was always such a nice, polite boy.” Also on page two were pictures and short bios of the people that this nice, polite boy and his two equally nice and polite friends had so viciously cut down.

  Page three had a follow-up report on the near-fatal beating of a seventy-two-year-old nun carjacked two weeks earlier.

  Page four provided a hodgepodge of national news.

  And then on page five was the item Lou had been referring to—and which, understandably, I almost missed.

  The headline read: “Local Dentist Slain.”

  Not only did the paper manage to screw up Vincent’s occupation, though, but in the brief, twelve- or thirteen-line blurb below, his widow’s name was given as “Stella.”

  As Lou predicted, I did have to laugh.

  I scanned the rest of the paper perfunctorily, then turned back to the Vincent story. If it had been known at the time this edition went to press that his murder was premeditated, would Frank’s death have been accorded a more prominent position? Maybe even been
deemed worthy of an accompanying photo?

  I wasn’t at all sure. “My” victim might still have been relegated to page five, considering that the lowlifes out there were so busy wreaking havoc in McDonald’s and preying on elderly nuns.

  Shaking my head sadly, I turned back to the computer and began to type.

  Chapter 18

  The call came late in the afternoon.

  “Desiree?” asked the unmistakable voice.

  “Yes.”

  “You are alone?”

  “Yes. But hold on please.” I got up quickly and ran to see if anyone was within earshot.

  “I’m back,” I said as I settled into my chair again.

  “This is Vito da Silva.”

  “How are you, Mr. da Silva?”

  “Not too bad, thank you. Are they treating you all right over there?”

  “Fine.”

  “And the investigation? You are satisfied with how it is proceeding?”

  “Well, it’s moving along,” I answered noncommittally. “But, of course, it’s still too early to know who was responsible for Frankie’s death.”

  “I can appreciate this. But, tell me, have you met with the widow as yet?”

  “I saw her on Saturday.”

  “And? What is your impression?”

  I was cautious. “So far I don’t really have any. Mrs. Vincent’s alibi checks out. She was in France at the time of the shooting—I wanted to make absolutely certain of that. Of course, as you yourself suggested, she might have found someone else to dispose of her husband. And I’m looking into that possibility very carefully, with the help of this partner the police here have assigned to assist me—a lieutenant.”

  It was really as much as I could say. I certainly didn’t want to share my misgivings about Sheila Vincent with da Silva, client or not. Suppose he took these nebulous feelings of mine as confirmation of his own suspicions about the woman? (And his previous assurances aside, I wasn’t entirely comfortable about how he might deal with something like this.) There was also the tiny consideration that I hadn’t even discovered any kind of motive. But the most compelling reason for keeping my thoughts to myself was my own track record. I mean, judging from past performances, my inclination to saddle Sheila Vincent with the crime automatically made her the person least likely to have committed it.

  Da Silva appeared to be satisfied with my response. “Good. You must continue to look.”

  And now I thought it advisable to stick in, “Naturally, we’re exploring other avenues as well.”

  “Naturally. And Desiree, the funeral is tomorrow, in the event you were not informed.” I wasn’t. “The service is at the graveside. I think it might be wise for you to drive out there.” I didn’t for a moment regard this as a suggestion. It was, I realized, a command. Da Silva gave me the time and place.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  That evening Lou and I had an early dinner at a seafood restaurant on the outskirts of Riverton. We both ordered the surf-and-turf platters, my having fallen into line with Lou after his assurance that “You’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  “So? What’s the verdict?” he asked eagerly, soon after we were served.

  Now, while the broiled lobster was slightly overcooked (I prefer my lobster boiled, anyway, don’t you?), there was nothing slight about the overcooking of the steak. The fact is, that poor cow had been cremated. But I hated to hurt Lou’s feelings. I mean, for the last few minutes I’d been observing him attack both the meat and the shellfish with an expression on his face that was akin to ecstasy. So under the circumstances, I felt that a small falsehood was definitely in order.

  “Oh, this is just great,” I enthused. (I wasn’t a member of my high school drama club for nothing.)

  Lou beamed. The man couldn’t have been more pleased if he’d prepared the meal himself.

  It seemed like a good time to bring up the funeral.

  “Maybe it would be worthwhile if we went,” I said.

  Lou seemed surprised. “Why?”

  “Well, it could be interesting to see who shows up.”

  “Don’t count on there being any startling revelations,” he responded. “Nobody’s going to be accommodating enough to stand there nibbling on Mrs. Vincent’s ear so he can be identified as her lover.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Look, you really want to go? It’s not a problem.” And after a moment’s reflection: “Say, how did you find out about the funeral, anyway?”

  “I don’t exactly remember. Uh, wait,” I fumbled, “I think Andrew Shippman mentioned it when I phoned him.” My burning cheeks, however, were quick to put my veracity in doubt.

  “Bullshit,” Lou responded amiably. “Come clean, Shapiro. You heard about the funeral from your client, didn’t you?”

  My cheeks were getting hotter—which meant redder. So what was the point in denying it?

  “That’s right.”

  Grinning, he wagged a finger at me. “I’m going to find out who he is, Desiree. It may take a while, but I will find out.” The grin widened. “I am a detective, you know.”

  Chapter 19

  Sheila Vincent greeted us at the door, looking flushed, sounding breathless, and spouting apologies.

  “I am s-o-o sorry I kept you waiting this morning.” And to me: “I suppose Lieutenant Hoffman told you about the dentist and the traffic accident and everything?”

  I said that yes, he had.

  “I realize I should have called from the dentist’s to let the two of you know I was going to be detained, but . . .” Making a face, she spread her arms in what I took to be a gesture of mea culpa. “Sometimes I just don’t think. Anyhow, it’s been one of those really terrible days.”

  I told her we understood. And then Lou reiterated my exact words in order to make absolutely certain she understood that we understood. After which we followed her into the study, where she parked us for close to fifteen minutes while she attended to a phone call she just had to make that instant.

  We waited for her return with increasing annoyance, alternating between periods of silence and small talk. After a while, Lou rose from his chair and began to pace. Finally, Sheila’s perfume wafted into the room, and a moment later she made her entrance.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she murmured. “I had no idea it would take this long. Business,” she explained. “I have an extremely antsy publisher.” This time even Lou didn’t tell her we understood.

  As she crossed the small study to join me on the sofa, I appraised her with grudging admiration. She had on a white, vee-neck silk shirt and beautifully tailored black wool pants that fit the way pants should fit a woman—but seldom do. (This being the reason my own closet doesn’t contain a single pair of those pitiless hip- and bum-spreaders.) The shiny blonde hair was once again drawn back into a flawless and extremely flattering chignon. And her only jewelry was a pair of simple pearl earrings—which, of course, was exactly the right touch for the outfit. The widow had taste, I’d give her that.

  As soon as she was seated, Sheila said pleasantly, “What was it you wanted to see me about, Detectives?”

  Lou, who was standing at the desk now, cleared his throat. “According to our records, Mrs. Vincent, on the evening your husband was sh—What I mean is, according to our records, last Wednesday your husband was wearing an Omega watch and a gold pinkie ring with a ruby center stone and a couple of diamond chips. Also, he had two hundred and twenty-two dollars in his wallet. Does that amount sound about right to you?”

  “I guess so. He usually carried a minimum of a hundred dollars.”

  “Can you think of any other valuables he normally had on his person?”

  “None I’m aware of.”

  I joined in the questioning. “Mrs. Vincent, do you think your husband might have been involved with drugs?”

  “Frank? He would never use—”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t make myself clear. I’m not talking about using; I’m referrin
g to dealing.”

  Sheila’s answer was aborted by a long, low whistle. We both turned toward Lou.

  He was removing an eight-by-ten photograph from the desk top. He stared down at it, then walked briskly over to the sofa and handed the picture to Sheila. I inched my bottom a bit closer to hers so I could get a look at it. The shot was of two men in shirtsleeves, arms around each other’s shoulders. It appeared to have been taken at some kind of political headquarters. “This guy with your husband—” Lou began.

  “That’s Joe Maltese,” Sheila said.

  Lou nodded. “Yes. Do you know him well?”

  “Not very. He worked on Frank’s campaign for the state assembly, and he’s been to the house once or twice. Why?” she demanded, a note of intensity in her voice. “Do you think Joe might have had something to do with Frank’s murder?”

  “I couldn’t say at this point,” Lou responded as he returned to his chair. “But, tell me, are you aware that Maltese is an associate of Vito da Silva’s?”

  Well, there it was. My client had now been linked to the deceased. Which was to be expected. Still, I wasn’t at all happy that the connection had been made. Which, I suppose, was also to be expected.

  “I didn’t realize that Joe even knew da Silva,” Sheila murmured.

  “And you? Are you acquainted with Vito da Silva, Mrs. Vincent?”

  “Slightly. I probably should have mentioned this on Saturday, Lieutenant, but it didn’t occur to me. Besides, I can’t see how it could be relevant to my husband’s death. But, anyway, da Silva was responsible for his bid for office. I didn’t have any idea about that for a long time. Then I began hearing rumors. But when I asked Frank if it was true da Silva was sponsoring him, he denied it. In fact, he acted as if I were out of my mind. And then when da Silva didn’t show up at any of the parties or fund-raisers for Frank, I decided I must have been listening to a lot of spiteful gossip.”

  “How did you finally learn about his connection to your husband?” I put in.