Sis Boom Bah

by Jane Heller

  “He had many more positive qualities than negative,” she said. “Not the least of which was the gentlemanly manner in which he handled the constant badgering he took from his ex-wife.”

  “Francine?”

  “Yes. No matter who much money he gave her, it was never enough.”

  “Not for all those shoes and handbags, huh?”

  “She’s a leech, that woman. The doctor couldn’t get rid of her.”

  Maybe, but did she get rid of him? I wondered. “By any chance, do you know if Francine has a key to the doctor’s house?” I asked.

  “I assume she does, because he never bothered to change the locks after she moved out. Doctors are notoriously disorganized when it comes to their personal lives.”

  I nodded, pondering whether he never bothered to change his will, either. Mostly what I pondered, though, was why Joan had brought Francine up both times I’d talked to her, had bad-mouthed Jeffrey’s ex to a complete stranger. Was she threatened by Francine? Did she view the former Mrs. Hirshon as competition, either for her boss’s money or his love?

  “Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time, Joan,” I said, linking my arm through my mother’s. “Although there is something else that’s been nagging at me.”

  “And that is?”

  “The last time I was here, I asked you why you had stayed with the doctor for ten years and you said it was because the job had ‘other compensations.’ What did you mean?”

  She gathered herself up. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was extremely well paid, as far as office nurses go. I was also given more responsibility than most office nurses. The doctor trusted me without reservation, allowed me to manage personal matters for him as well as assist him in his practice, treated me like family. We had what can only be characterized as—”

  “Yes?”

  “—a special partnership.”

  I nodded, intrigued by her choice of words. Intrigued enough to try to get in one more question. “You really do have our sympathies, Joan. For someone as close to the doctor as you were, hearing that he was murdered must have been like hearing that Kennedy was assassinated—you know, one of those major events where you remember exactly where you were and what you were doing when you found out.”

  “It was like that,” she acknowledged.

  “Where were you when you heard, by the way?”

  “About Kennedy or Dr. Hirshon?”

  “Dr. Hirshon.”

  “I was at home.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. With my precious little Sheldon.”

  “Your child?”

  “My cat.”

  “Oh. How did you hear about the murder?”

  “On the eleven o’clock news. I almost fainted when they put that unflattering photograph of the doctor on the screen. I have so many wonderful pictures of him at home and they had to use that one.”

  God, this Joan was more than devoted to her boss. She obviously worshiped the man. But was it Jeffrey’s charisma that bound her to him for a decade or the tidy sum of money he kept paying her?

  As my mother and I left the office, I felt just as suspicious of Joan as I had before the visit. Maybe more so.

  I called Detective Gillby from my mother’s house.

  “I’ve got another lead for you,” I told him. “Two leads.”

  “We’re on top of the case, Ms. Peltz,” he said.

  “Undoubtedly, but I spoke with Dr. Hirshon’s long-time nurse today, Joan . . . Joan ... I didn’t catch her last name.”

  “It’s Sheldon.”

  “No, that’s the name of her cat.”

  “It’s also the name of her late husband.”

  “His name was Sheldon Sheldon?”

  “No,” Gillby said impatiently. “His name was Samuel Sheldon. And Joan’s name is Joan Sheldon. As you can see, we’ve already talked to the lady.”

  “Of course you have. I mean no disrespect, Detective, but did you know that she has no alibi for the night Dr. Hirshon was killed? She was home alone, with Sheldon.”

  “We didn’t ask her what she was doing the night of the murder because she’s not a suspect, Ms. Peltz. She had no motive. She was extremely loyal to the doctor. She worked for him for ten years.”

  “Yes, but when you interviewed her, did she reveal that he paid her very handsomely, more than the typical salary for an office nurse?”

  “No. Actually, she didn’t.”

  “Well, she wasn’t shy about telling me. She referred to their relationship as a ‘special partnership.’ I’m going out on a limb here, Detective, but I think the two of them were having sex.”

  He laughed. “Ms. Peltz, the only people who have sex are the characters on that soap opera you used to write for. Nobody has it in real life.”

  “You must be married,” I said.

  “Correct,” he said.

  “Let’s say they were having sex, just for the heck of it. Maybe Joan got wind of Dr. Hirshon’s fling with Vicky and killed him in a jealous rage. Or, there’s another possibility—that all the money he was paying her was hush money. Maybe she was his accomplice in some shady activity. Have you considered that they might have been engaging in Medicare fraud, Detective?”

  “It wasn’t the first thing that came to mind, no. But this office is very thorough, Ms. Peltz. If there was fraud, we’ll uncover it. In time. These things take time.”

  “I understand.”

  “I appreciate that. Now, you said you had two leads. Let’s have the other one.”

  “Well, according to Joan, Dr. Hirshon’s ex-wife, Francine, was always nagging him about money.”

  “What are ex-wives for?”

  “I’m serious, Detective. She harassed him about money. No matter how much he gave her, it was never enough. What do you think of that?”

  “We’ve already spoken to the doctor’s ex-wife, Ms. Peltz. We’re aware that she had disagreements with him.”

  “Okay, but did you ask her if she still has a key to her ex-husband’s house? Because—now this is only a theory—she could have been so upset with him that she let herself into the house and shot him.”

  “She was in Aspen the night of the murder, Ms. Peltz. We ruled her out.”

  “She could have given the key to a hit man. Did you rule that out?”

  There was no response.

  “Oh, and I was wondering,” I pressed on. “Have you interviewed Dr. Hirshon’s attorney?”

  “His attorney?”

  “Yes. Whoever did his estate planning. You might want to ask him or her if Dr. Hirshon forgot to change his will after the divorce, the same way he forgot to change his locks. If it turns out that Francine’s still the sole beneficiary, it certainly would shed new light on the case.”

  “Ms. Peltz. Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you involving yourself in this investigation?”

  “You involved me, Detective Gillby, the minute you read me my Miranda Rights.”

  “But most murder suspects go out of their way to avoid talking to the police. You, on the other hand, seem to have my phone number on speed dial.”

  “Are you saying that none of my information is useful to you? Not the fact that Vicky Walters was having a secret affair with the doctor or that Joan Sheldon was involved in a ‘special relationship’ with him or that Francine Hirshon was desperate for money and might stand to inherit a bundle from his will? Do you really want me to buzz off?”

  Silence.

  “Detective?”

  “You call whenever you’ve got something, Ms. Peltz.”

  I smiled and bid him a pleasant evening.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My mother insisted I stay for dinner Friday night. We feasted on boneless, skinless chicken breasts, baked potatoes topped with salt-free, cholesterol-free, fat-free cheese product, and salad with ranch dressing that was made with yogurt, not sour cream. By the end of the meal, I had an insatiable cravi
ng for an egg yolk.

  During dinner, we traded theories about who killed you-know-who.

  “Vicky told me that Jeffrey dated a lot of ‘society women’ after his divorce,” I said at one point. “What sort of society women does Stuart have?”

  “They’re not the dowager-types they have in Palm Beach,” my mother explained. “For the most part, they’re pretty, young girls from Stuart’s old, moneyed families. They play golf or tennis, serve on planning committees for charity balls, and ride around in expensive convertibles. And some of them look like they’re straight out of a Talbot’s catalog.”

  “I get the picture,” I said. “I wonder if one of them could have murdered Jeffrey. As a retaliation of some sort.”

  “Given the way he treated my daughters, I think he probably provoked angry feelings in a lot of women.”

  “Definitely, but the question is, which of these women did he provoke angry feelings in and how do I find them?”

  My mother chuckled. “That’s an easy one, dear. I’ll give Celeste Tolliver a call. She’s the society editor at the Stuart News. She’s been covering the scene for years, knows who goes where and with whom. If Dr. Hirshon was the philanthropist people say he was, he attended the big fund-raising events in town—and brought a lady friend to each function, undoubtedly. I’ll bet Celeste will not only give us the names of the women; she’ll show us the photographs she took of them.”

  I smiled, enjoying this new side of my mother. She’d always had a knack for solving problems, but solving crimes was something else again. “How do you know Celeste, Mom? I don’t remember you attending many charity galas.”

  “This is a small town, Deborah. You live here long enough, your path crosses with just about everybody.”

  We agreed that my mother would try to reach Celeste Tolliver on Monday morning at the newspaper. I was about to say goodnight and head back to the cottage when the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, eager to spare her from either an intrusive media person or an intrusive salesperson. “Hello?”

  “Oh. It’s you, Deborah,” said Sharon, sounding disappointed when she heard my voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be on Hutchinson Island, watching over those derelict buildings?”

  “I’m a caretaker, not a security guard, Sharon. I’m allowed to leave the premises.”

  “Whatever. How’s Mom?”

  “She seems fine. We’ve just been sitting here plotting our next move in the investigation. This afternoon she drove me over to Jeffrey’s office, so I could question his nurse. Now she’s setting up an interview for us with a woman who works at the Stuart News.”

  “I cannot believe—cannot believe—that you’re dragging our mother into this lunacy of yours, Deborah. Have you completely forgotten that she’s been seriously ill?”

  “Of course not. She asked me to involve her. She said helping me takes her mind off her health, makes her feel useful.”

  “Well, I’m against her traipsing around like some amateur private eye. I’m concerned that the stress could bring on another heart attack.”

  “No, Sharon. You’re concerned that you’re not up here running the show, the way you’ve always been.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is. Besides, this ‘investigation’ you’ve undertaken is a fool’s errand, according to Barry. He’s been advising me that the best strategy for us to take right now is to stop talking to people about the case. He says we should let the dust settle, let the smoke clear, let nature take its course.”

  “Does he charge you by the hour or by the cliché?”

  “Very amusing. The point he was making is that we should keep a low profile. As for what he charges me, we haven’t discussed his fee. He told me when he called me that first time that he simply wanted to be there for me, to steer me through the tangled web of the justice system.”

  I tried not to gag. “Where is Barry tonight? I thought you two were having dinner.”

  “We are. I’m at a pay phone at La Vieille Maison. We’re between courses.” I practically drooled when I pictured all that cream sauce. “He’s been telling me fascinating stories about his background. For example, he’s from New Jersey, originally, but he got his B.A. at the University of Miami—class of sixty-three—and liked it so much that he went to law school there too. And he’s been living in south Florida ever since.”

  “Boy. What an adventurer. I can see why you were riveted.”

  “What is it with you, Deborah? You’ve done nothing but make snippy remarks about Barry from the minute you met him.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” I said, remembering that it was my snippy remark about Lester, Sharon’s most recent ex-husband, that set off our two-year estrangement. Still, there was something about Barry Shiller that caused me to want to take a shower.

  “Look, is Mom there?” Sharon said. “I called to tell her that the police have talked to Norman and confirmed that he was at school the night of the murder. I’m relieved that they don’t suspect him of anything, but I hate that they bothered him with this nonsense.”

  “I don’t blame you. Give him my love when you speak to him, would you?”

  “I’ll try, but it may come out sounding forced.”

  I bit my tongue. “I’ll get Mom.” I put down the phone and told my mother it was her other daughter, Miss Congeniality, on the line. And then I kissed her goodnight and went home.

  Saturday was a gray day at the beach, the sky ominous with rain clouds, but that didn’t keep dozens of tourists from stopping by the House of Refuge and having a look around.

  I saw Fred Zimsky as he was coming on duty, and he introduced me to a couple of the other volunteers, both of whom said they had read about me in the newspaper and wasn’t it an awful thing that such a nice doctor was murdered in his own house.

  “He wasn’t a nice doctor,” Fred told them. “He hardly ever visited his mother in the nursing home.”

  Not in the mood to listen to them debate the issue, I escaped inside the cottage, where I read, watched a little TV, and pondered my future—my professional future, mostly. I knew, deep down, that Gillby would let Sharon and me off the hook eventually and that he would nail the real killer in time. And so I tried to project what I would do with myself after the murder was solved. Since I had written for a living once, I considered writing for a living now: a novel; a column for one of the local newspapers; advertising copy for golf communities. When none of those options appealed to me, I went out on the porch and stared at the ocean, which was as unproductive as it was enjoyable.

  The sea was churning and white-capped by late afternoon, and a gusty, southeasterly wind had developed. I didn’t have to be a metoerologist to figure out that we were in for a storm, possibly a nasty one, and that it would be my first since I’d moved in to the cottage. I was grateful that my job description didn’t include rescuing ship-wrecked sailors after all.

  I went into the kitchen and took an inventory of my rations, should the electricity go out. I had bread and tuna fish and salad fixings, and two bottles of Chianti. An embarrassment of riches.

  At about seven o’clock, just after the rain started coming down in sheets, along with a few rumbles of thunder, I heard a knock at the door. Slightly paranoid since the murder, I considered not answering it. But then I recognized Ray Scalley’s voice.

  “Hey, Deborah!” he yelled. “I see the lights on. I know you’re in there.”

  I opened the door.

  “What are you doing out in this rain? You’re soaking wet,” I said, pulling him inside.

  He shook the water off of him, like a dog after a bath. “I was driving back from Jensen Beach and thought I’d stop in, check out how you’re doing,” he said. “I know it’s Saturday night, but since you told me you’re not interested in dating, I figured it was a safe bet you’d be here all by your lonesome.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Ray. I’m happy to have the com
pany, although you seem to have an aversion to using the telephone.”

  “I do tend to show up without calling first, don’t I?” He laughed. “Sorry about that. It must be a childhood thing. When I was growing up, my brother was always hogging the phone. I probably decided somewhere along the line that I could survive without ever using one.

  “Siblings are such fun,” I said. “Now, how about something to drink? The choices are Chianti and water.”

  “Normally I’m a beer guy, but I’ll suffer with the Chianti.”

  I poured us each a glass and we took our wine into the living room.

  “You’ve got the floodlights on out there, which makes this sofa a great spot for storm watching,” said Ray. “Have a seat.” He patted the cushion next to him.

  I sat. We drank the wine and talked. I filled him in on my Jeffrey-related encounters, and, as a finale, performed what I thought were brilliant imitations of Detective Gillby, Vicky Walters, Joan Sheldon, Barry Shiller, and my sister. Ray laughed, which made me laugh, and after we’d gotten All Things Jeffrey out of our system, we pledged not to mention him or the investigation for the rest of the evening. (I also made a silent vow to stop waiting for him to suddenly reveal himself as the murderer and just be grateful for his company.)

  We gazed out the windows at the rain and sea and swaying palm trees, just kicked back and let nature’s pyrotechnics entertain us. I had forgotten that thunderstorms at the beach, particularly thunderstorms at night, are so dramatic, and I felt lucky both to have a front-row seat and to be snug and warm and dry at the same time.

  It wasn’t a hardship having someone to share the experience with, either. I had been so accustomed to experiencing everything alone, was so used to being by myself, that having Ray there, listening to the low timbre of his voice as he commented on the storm, on how the weather in Florida has become more unpredictable over the last few years, on how the water and salt and wind take their toll on wood-frame buildings like the House of Refuge, was soothing.

  Not that I mean to make Ray sound like a glass of warm milk, because he certainly wasn’t soothing as in boring. He kidded me and I kidded him back, and there were moments when we sparred like a couple of prizefighters. But there was something so easy, so natural about the way our conversation moved, the way it meandered. This was a different sort of intimacy, I realized, this having a person to watch rain storms with, this having a person who drops over to your house, unannounced, simply because he feels like it.