by Jane Heller
The cop clamped the handcuffs on her. On me, too.
“Look. You don’t think we shot Dr. Hirshon,” I protested.
“If you didn’t shoot him then what are you doing here, covered in blood, raising a ruckus?” asked the handcuffer.
“Raising a ruckus?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “A neighbor reported a disturbance—two women arguing outside the doctor’s house. The officers over there came to see what the trouble was. When they saw that the front door was open, they figured they were dealing with a burglary, not a homicide.”
A homicide, I thought, as it was all beginning to sink in. A murder. Jeffrey Hirshon had been offed. Jeffrey, the cardiologist. Jeffrey, the charmer. Jeffrey, the lying, cheating son-of-a-bitch.
Yes, I was hurt and angry that he had turned out to be a rat, but I didn’t want him dead! And I certainly didn’t want to be caught standing over his dead body!
My, won’t Melinda Carr be thrilled to hear about this, I mused, remembering her little speech about the Historical Society and the impeccable reputation it demanded of its employees.
Of course, it was my mother, not my job, I was most worried about. I hoped she wouldn’t hear what had happened—at least not until Sharon and I had a chance to talk to her first.
“Get ‘em outside already, so we can secure the crime scene,” the cop who seemed to be in charge ordered the cop who was herding us out the front door. “Let ‘em cool their heels before we drive ‘em down to the station for questioning.”
For questioning. In the murder of Jeffrey Hirshon.
Sharon and I looked at each other, first helplessly, then cautiously.
As we were being stuffed into the backseat of a patrol car, it suddenly occurred to us that, no matter how dysfunctional our relationship had been, no matter what had happened between us in the past, we could no longer afford to be each other’s enemy; we were now each other’s alibi.
Part Two
Chapter Ten
While Sharon and I sat in the backseat of the patrol car for what seemed like a lifetime, our friendly cop stood guard outside the car, watching our every move—and, unbenownst to us, taping our every word.
“I can’t believe this,” I said to my sister. “It’s a disaster.”
She nodded dully. “Now we’ll never know which of us Jeffrey wanted.”
I stared at her in amazement. Clearly, she was still in shock. I would have grabbed her by the shoulders and shaken her, but the handcuffs made that a bit cumbersome. “He didn’t want either of us,” I reminded her. “The guy was a liar, Sharon. He didn’t mean any of the things he said to us.”
“Yes, a liar,” she repeated. “I forgot. It’s this damn headache. A premenstrual headache. They’re the worst, don’t you think? Especially in combination with the bloating?”
Jesus. “Listen, Sharon. I feel funny asking you this, but how long were you in the bushes before you saw me walking up to Jeffrey’s house?”
She shrugged. “A minute or two. Who remembers?”
“Did you see anybody else coming or going from the house?”
“No.”
“Hear anything?”
“No.”
“Did you go inside the house at any point before I got there?”
“No.”
“So you had no idea that Jeffrey was—”
“No!”
“Okay. Okay. I’m just asking.”
“You’re doing more than that. You’re insinuating that I killed Jeffrey before you showed up. Admit it.”
“Sharon, I’m trying to piece things together. That’s all.”
“Well, piece this together. I had dinner with Mom at seven-thirty. She went to the bedroom to watch television at eight-thirty. I changed my clothes and walked over here about nine. The rest you know. I didn’t kill Jeffrey. What’s more, I can’t believe my own sister suspects me of killing him.”
“Keep your voice down,” I shushed her, nodding at the cop keeping vigil outside the car. “I don’t suspect you of killing Jeffrey. Honest.”
“Thank you.” She eyed me. “Now, why don’t you tell me your story?”
“My story?”
“Yes. It was about nine-fifteen when you pulled into Jeffrey’s driveway, wasn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“Was that your first trip over here tonight?”
“What are you implying?”
“Well, maybe you came over earlier. To confront Jeffrey about his feelings for you. Maybe he gave you the brush-off and you got mad and shot him. You ran out of the house and then remembered that you left the gun next to the body. So you drove back to get it. Which is when you saw me. Maybe you’re the one who killed him, Deborah. How do you feel about that?”
I shook my head. Things were worse than I thought. “Do I look like the sort of person who goes around shooting people? I don’t own a gun. I don’t even know how to work a gun.”
She thought for a minute. “I believe you,” she said finally. “People who shoot people probably don’t say ‘work a gun.’ It sounds amateurish.”
“I appreciate that. Look, Sharon. We’ve had our problems, but let’s at least agree that neither of us murdered Jeffrey.”
“Agreed.”
I sighed with relief. “Let’s also agree that the best way to handle this pickle we’re in is to tell the truth.”
“No. The best way to handle it is to get a lawyer. Mom works for the court system. She must know some lawyers.”
“The lawyers she knows are small-claims lawyers, Sharon. Their clients are dry cleaners accused of ruining people’s favorite garments. They don’t defend murder suspects.”
“Then we’ll find a lawyer who does. There may not be any in this one-horse town, but I bet there are plenty in Boca.”
Before I could respond, the cop opened the door of the driver’s side of the car, got in, and announced that he was taking us down to the Martin County Sheriff’s Office, where we would be interviewed about the murder.
“But it’s late, and I’m not feeling well,” Sharon whined. “Couldn’t we do this tomorrow?”
He snickered and drove off.
There had never been a homicide in Sewall’s Point. The “crimes” in my mother’s exclusive little hamlet, aside from the occasional robbery, involved driving over the thirty-five mph speed limit, walking a dog without a leash, and mowing the lawn before 8:00 A.M. As a result, there was some confusion as to which branch of local law enforcement would handle the investigation. Technically, Sewall’s Point’s chief of police was overseeing the matter, but it was the Martin County Sheriff’s Office that had experience in dealing with murderers and, therefore, was taking charge of the case. So across the bridge to Stuart we went, to the sheriff’s office on Monterey Road, where a detective was waiting to question us.
“Let the games begin,” I said to Sharon, after she had asked that our handcuffs be removed so she could massage her aching temples. (They were removed.)
While one cop in the office was fingerprinting us, another was running background checks on us, to find out if we had any “priors.”
“Why would they care about my ex-husbands?” Sharon whispered.
“That’s not what they mean by priors,” I said tolerantly.
We were also given something called a GSR test, to determine if there was any gunshot residue on our hands.
And then we were read those notorious Miranda Rights, which sent Sharon into a tizzy.
“I’m not talking without my lawyer present,” she insisted.
“So call your lawyer,” said the detective, whose name was Frank Gillby, a short, stocky man with a full head of carrot-red hair.
“I don’t have one,” she said. “Yet.”
“Sharon,” I said. “We’re innocent. We have nothing to hide. We should cooperate with the police as best we can so that whoever killed Jeffrey will be caught. The last thing we want is some psycho running around loose in Sewall’s Point, right? Not with
Mom living here all by herself.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll talk. And then I’ll hire a lawyer. If that’s okay with everybody.”
“It’s great,” said Detective Gillby. “Now. Which of you wants to go first?”
“I will,” I said, eager to get the whole business over with.
I was led into an interrogation room and told to sit down opposite the detective. Sewall’s Point’s head honcho, Chief Avery Armstrong, was there too, since the homicide occurred in his jurisdiction. But it was Gillby who asked the questions, which ran the gamut from, “How long have you known Jeffrey Hirshon?” and “Were you having an affair with him?” to “What were you and your sister fighting about outside his front door?”
Answering the last question was complicated, obviously. How could I make the detective understand about Norman’s graduation? About Daddy? About cheerleading?
I couldn’t, but I tried. And in my effort to be totally forthcoming about my relationship with Sharon, I must have bored the poor detective to death, because he actually nodded out. So did Chief Armstrong.
“Hey, guys,” I prodded them, after having just completed the story of the high fever that had kept me from attending my nephew’s special day. “Are you going to arrest me and my sister or not?”
Detective Gillby opened his eyes. “Say it again?”
I repeated the question.
“I don’t know yet,” he replied. “Have a seat outside, while I bring your sister in. I’ve gotta hear what she has to say about all this.”
So it was Sharon’s turn in the interrogation room, and she was in there much longer than I was. I assumed it was because she had a better memory than I did when it came to dredging up past slights.
Eventually, we were reunited and told that we were not going to be arrested—for the moment.
“I’m gonna let you ladies go for now,” said Detective Gillby. “It’ll take a couple of days before we get the results of the GSR test, which will tell us if either of you pulled the trigger and shot the doctor. In the meantime, you haven’t got any outstanding warrants or priors. And you don’t strike me as a threat to the community—except maybe to each other.” He elbowed Chief Armstrong. “The problem is, there’s still a lot of stuff we don’t know. Like approximately when Dr. Hirshon died and where you two were at that particular time. Like why there was no sign of forced entry into the house. Like how you really felt when you figured out he was coming on to both of you. Like whether you got mad enough to hire someone to kill the doctor.”
“Hire someone?” Sharon said, taking umbrage at the very notion.
“Come on, Detective. We hardly knew Jeffrey Hirshon,” I said.
“Then why did your sister admit, on the record, that she hoped to marry him?” he challenged.
“Because there isn’t a man my sister doesn’t hope to marry,” I said, utterly exhausted.
Sharon must have been exhausted too, because her only response was to glare at me.
Detective Gillby arranged for us to be driven home—Sharon, to my mother’s; me, to the cottage. He promised he would have the Pontiac dropped off too, as soon as the forensics people tested it for blood, hair fibers, and other goodies.
“Maybe they can change the battery while they’re at it.” I sighed. And then I remembered that Jeffrey had jump-started the battery. The last time I saw him. The last time I saw him alive.
We decided that the cop should drive us both to my mother’s house, so we could break the news of Jeffrey’s death—and our involvement—together.
When we walked in, we braced ourselves, expecting her to be frantic, since Sharon had been gone for so long. But she had fallen asleep in her bedroom with the TV on and didn’t even know my sister had left the house.
We woke her.
“Oh. It’s my two girls,” she said, rubbing her eyes, still a little groggy. “What are you both doing here? And Sharon, that sweater you’ve got on is a little skimpy, dear. Stained, too.”
“Mom, there’s something we have to tell you,” I began, helping her to sit up in bed.
“Yes. It’s about Dr. Hirshon,” said Sharon. “He’s—” She stopped and looked at me. I looked right back at her. Hey, she was the oldest. Let her drop the bomb. “He’s dead,” she said finally.
My mother gasped. “Dead? But how? Was he in some sort of an accident?”
I reached for her hand and held it tightly, wondering where the nitroglycerin was in case she went into cardiac arrest.
“He was murdered, Mom,” said Sharon. “In his house.”
“No! Not in Sewall’s Point! No one gets murdered here.”
“It’s true,” Sharon said. “They found him in his den. Well, to be totally accurate, we found him in his den.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Deborah and I found him, Mom. He’d been shot.” Sharon paused and then laid out the entire story, leaving nothing out, not even the part about the cheerleading.
My mother gasped again. Louder this time. I asked her if she wanted some water, her pills, anything. She shook me off.
“I’m sure there are other cardiologists in town,” I said reassuringly. “We could ask around at Martin Memorial. Or maybe one of the internists in Jeffrey’s practice could recommend someone. We’ll find you another doctor, Mom. Don’t worry.”
“For goodness sake, Deborah. I’m not worried about me,” she said. “I’m worried about my girls.”
“You mean, because we’re murder suspects?” asked Sharon.
“No, because you’re mental cases!” she said irritably. “Why you two can’t behave yourselves is beyond me.”
Sharon and I stared at the floor. We were still trying to get used to our mother’s new practice of speaking her mind.
“Did the police say what their next move is?” she asked.
“Sharon and I are supposed to go back to the sheriff’s office tomorrow, for more questioning,” I said.
“Which is a complete waste of time,” said Sharon. “They should be out combing the streets, searching for the real killer. Besides, I have to go back to Boca tomorrow afternoon. I have a business to run.”
“I hope you still have a business,” said my mother. “Sewall’s Point’s first murder is going to make headlines in every paper in south Florida. The publicity might scare your brides and grooms away.”
“Not a chance. The minute I get home, I’m finding a criminal defense lawyer,” said Sharon. “Someone to advise me and protect me and clear my name.”
“What about you, Deborah?” asked my mother.
“I’m not a fan of lawyers,” I said.
“All right, but what about your job? Do you think Melinda will let you stay on at the cottage? The Historical Society isn’t an especially broad-minded organization.”
“I know, but I’m planning to make Melinda an offer she can’t refuse,” I said, an idea dawning on me. “And then I’m going to find out who killed Dr. Hirshon.”
“You?” Sharon scoffed.
“That’s right,” I said. “I didn’t spend the last ten years in the soap opera business for nothing. I just might be able to spin out a few scenarios that wouldn’t occur to the police.”
Chapter Eleven
Thursday’s editions of the Stuart News and the Palm Beach Post, both of which serve the residents of the Stuart area, featured a front page story on Jeffrey’s murder, complete with a photograph of the doc in his lab coat and stethoscope. Part crime report, part obituary, each article gave the bare essentials of the case—that Jeffrey had been found dead in his Sewall’s Point home, the apparent victim of a gunshot wound; that the results of an autopsy and other tests were pending; that the police discovered the body after receiving a disturbance call from a neighbor; and that the two women found at the scene were Deborah Peltz of Hutchinson Island and Sharon Peltz of Boca Raton, the only daughters of Lenore Peltz and the late Dr. Henry Peltz of Sewall’s Point.
Nice of them to include my parents, I thought, wonde
ring why they didn’t drag Aunt Harriet, Cousin Jill, and the other branches of the family tree into the story.
Both articles also provided retrospectives on Jeffrey’s life and career, as he was a local big-shot and his death was said to be a terrible loss to the community. They reported where and when he was born and raised, where and when he attended college and medical school, where and when he moved to Florida and opened his practice, and where and when he married and divorced his wife, the former Francine Fink, who currently resided in Aspen, Colorado. (They did not mention Francine’s addiction to shoes and handbags.)
There were references to Jeffrey’s philanthropy, his years of service to the people of Martin County, his love of boating and fishing, and his air of accessibility and kindly manner.
“Dr. Hirshon’s death is a tragic loss,” the CEO of the hospital was quoted as saying. “He was a skilled physician, a sensitive, caring human being, and a dear friend. He will be missed.”
Not by me, I mused, as I sat in the sheriff’s office at eleven-thirty that morning, reading and rereading the articles while I waited my turn to be interrogated. Since I was car-less, Sharon had picked me up and driven us over for what was to be our second and, I fervently hoped, final session with Detective Gillby and company.
This time, the media was camped outside the office, and we were forced to barrel through everybody, heads down, muttering “No comment.” A small-town version of a tabloid nightmare.
The other difference between this interrogation session and the one that had taken place the night before was that Sharon had arranged for her lawyer to be present.
“I’ve engaged an attorney,” she’d informed me on our way to the sheriff’s office.
“How did you manage that so quickly?”
“It’s fantastic, isn’t it? The truth is, I didn’t even have to engage him. He engaged me.”
“What are you talking about, Sharon?”
“He tracked me down at Mom’s early this morning and offered his services. He’s a criminal defense attorney from Boca, and read about the case in today’s Post.”