by Jane Heller
My mother ate grilled salmon (sauce on the side), while I threw caution to the wind and went for the lamb shanks. We were midway into the meal when she said she had forgotten to take her medications.
She reached into her purse for her pills and retrieved her baby aspirin, her beta blocker, her cholesterol-lowering drug, and her Heartily Hirshon Vitamin E capsule.
“There,” she said after swallowing them down with some water. “Now I can get back to this delicious salmon. How is your lamb, dear?”
I didn’t answer.
“I asked you about the lamb, Deborah,” she repeated. “Is it tender?”
Again, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I was too preoccupied, too busy replaying my conversation with Helen, too caught up in the notion that Jeffrey’s murder might have something to do with his lucrative sideline, his auxiliary income, his vitamin business.
For God’s sake, I scolded myself, as I tried to make sense of my thoughts. How could I have been so single-minded in my efforts to flush out the murderer? How could I have allowed myself to be diverted by Jeffrey’s peccadilloes with women? How could I have completely overlooked another aspect of his life—the company he’d formed to produce and sell his “specially formulated” vitamins? How could I have forgotten that he had told Sharon and me that the pills were his foray into the world of the doctor-as-entrepreneur, and—here’s the part that made me feel really dim—that he had a partner in the venture? Wasn’t it more than possible that Jeffrey and this partner had a falling out—-over the business, over the product, over money—and that it was the partner (or, as Helen had put it, “the wronged business associate”) who had wiped Jeffrey out?
“Deborah,” my mother was saying. “What is it dear? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I assured her. “I thought I’d lost my glasses, but it turns out they’re sitting smack on my face.”
She looked at me. “You’re not wearing glasses, dear.”
“I guess I’d better explain,” I said, and served up my latest theory.
Chapter Twenty-two
I spent the next week stewing over my suspicion that Jeffrey’s vitamin business was somehow central to his murder, the expression “follow the money” playing over and over in my head. But I was frustrated in my attempts to actually go out and do anything about my hunch for a number of reasons. First, the Pontiac was out of commission yet again, this time for a busted water pump, which meant that I didn’t have my own wheels. Second, my mother and the Delta 88 went down to Boca to stay with Sharon for a couple of days, which meant that I didn’t have her wheels either. Third, several sections of wood decking behind the House of Refuge were rotted and needed to be replaced, and Melinda insisted that I be present while the work was done.
Of course, the person overseeing the work was Ray, so I didn’t really mind being grounded. We ate lunch together at the cottage each of the three days he and his crew were on the property, and chatted about a wide range of subjects. Ray was good company as always, but there was no mistaking the distance between us, the distance he seemed to be placing between us.
Was he still annoyed with me because I’d asked him why he hadn’t remarried? I wondered. If so, what was the big deal? It was true that he and I had known each other for barely a month, but I felt closer to him than I did to any of the men I’d left back in New York. He was my first friend in Stuart at a time when I desperately needed one. I’d shared aspects of my life with him that I hadn’t shared with anyone, including my tormented relationship with Sharon. So wasn’t I permitted one measly question about his life?
No, this little chill between us will melt, I decided. Ray’s just preoccupied with his job.
Well, his job appeared to be the last thing on his mind on Wednesday night, the night my mother returned from Boca and the two of us went to dinner at the Black Marlin. We were in the middle of our meal when Ray walked in with an attractive—and very youthful-looking—woman. After they waited at the bar for ten minutes or so, the hostess seated them in the booth directly opposite ours. Naturally.
He didn’t see us at first, but when he did, he jumped up and made his way over to our table. Wearing blue jeans and a tan denim shirt, he looked scrubbed and shaven, his often unruly hair neatly combed. A combination cowboy/altar boy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Peltz,” he said after I introduced him to my mother.
“It’s lovely to meet you too, dear,” she said, shaking hands with him. “I understand you’ve been very kind to Deborah.”
“Kind? He’s been a saint,” I said. “A boy scout.” There was a definite edge to my voice; for some reason, I was doing an excellent imitation of my sister. “So, who’s the lucky lady tonight, Ray?” I nodded at his companion.
“That’s Holly,” he said, waving at her. She waved back. She had small hands, I noticed. A child’s hands.
“Holly,” I mused. “You’re dating another tree.”
He laughed. “I guess I am, now that you mention it. You doing okay, Deborah?” He touched my arm.
“I’m great. My mother’s great. We’re both great. But don’t let us keep you,” I said, shooing him away. “We wouldn’t want Holly to get restless. You know kids and their short attention spans.”
My mother shot me a disapproving glance.
Ray, on the other hand, seemed amused. “Actually, I came prepared—I brought crayons and a coloring book, in case little Holly gets antsy. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mrs. Peltz. You too, Deborah.”
When he was out of earshot, my mother leaned across the table and asked me why I had been so rude to someone who had been so nice to me.
“I’m a bad person,” I said, hanging my head in self-loathing.
“You’re no such thing,” she said.
“Okay. Then you explain it.”
She smiled. “It’s possible that you’re angry at Ray for going out with another woman tonight. In other words, you’re jealous.”
“No, you don’t understand, Mom. Ray and I are just—”
“—friends. You told me.”
“That’s right.” I paused. “However, I admit that I won’t be shattered if it turns out that he and Holly decide not to see each other again.”
“That remark doesn’t strike me as something one would say about a friend, Deborah. Friends want each other to be happy.”
“True, but friends also want what’s best for each other. I don’t happen to think Holly is what’s best for Ray.”
“You’re an authority on Holly?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you think she’s not an appropriate match for Ray?”
I shrugged. “Women’s intuition. And the fact that she doesn’t look old enough to drive a car in most states.”
My mother shook her head. “As I said before, you’re jealous, dear. Either get over it or do something about it.”
Do something about it. As if Ray had any interest whatsoever in being more than pals with me. As if I didn’t have other, much more pressing matters with which to concern myself.
On Thursday morning, after picking up the Pontiac and learning that the car’s radiator hose, fan belt, and wheel bearings were, in the mechanic’s professional opinion, “about to go,” I sat down and plotted my next move in my investigation into Jeffrey’s murder—my not-so-magnificent obsession, as I had come to regard it.
Following up on Helen’s Wronged Business Associate theory, I reviewed my conversations with Joan Sheldon, recalling that she was the one who handled the sales and fulfilled the orders of Jeffrey’s vitamins; that she was the one who collected the cash and checks from customers and, presumably, deposited the money in the bank; that she was the one who described her relationship with the doctor as a “special partnership.” But was she the actual partner Jeffrey had referred to when he’d told Sharon and me about his vitamin business? Was it her share of the profits from the company that represented her “other compensations?” Was she the wronged business associate who shot and
killed Jeffrey Hirshon?
If you don’t ask, you don’t get, I thought, reaching for the phone.
I called Joan at the office, assuming she was still holding down the fort there.
“I wonder if you would meet me after work tonight,” I said, getting right to the point. “Someplace quiet, where we wouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Why in the world would I do that?” she said rather belligerently. “You and your sister are implicated in Dr. Hirshon’s murder. You don’t really expect me to be alone with you and put myself in jeopardy.”
“Oh. Then you haven’t heard. The police have completely ruled us out as suspects.” Well, it felt true.
“No, I didn’t hear that. Have they figured out who did kill the doctor?”
“Not yet, and that’s one of the reasons I’d like to sit down with you, Joan. I was hoping that you and I could knock around a few ideas, since the police don’t seem to have any.”
“Nope. I’m not saying anything to anybody. Not about Dr. Hirshon.”
“You used to talk about him,” I pointed out, citing several of the gossipy tidbits she had shared when I’d stopped by the office.
“Well, I’m not talking about him now,” she said firmly.
“Why? Has someone told you not to discuss his case?” I asked, thinking of the shaving-cream warning I’d received.
“I said I’m not talking and I meant it.”
Clearly, a different tack was in order. If I couldn’t get through to Joan’s passion for justice, I would appeal to her passion for financial security. “Listen, Joan. What I really want to talk to you about is Heartily Hirshon.”
Silence.
“Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I said I want to talk to you about the vitamin company.”
“What about it?”
“How it got started, whether it’s been a successful business, that kind of thing. Ever since I left my job in New York, I’ve been trying to decide what to do with myself here in Stuart, career-wise. It occurred to me that I could start my own vitamin company, with one of the doctors in town, and that we could hire you as a consultant, to get the project up and running. Would you be interested in making some extra money? Now that poor Dr. Hirshon’s gone?”
Another silence.
“Joan?”
“I’m still not talking.”
She hung up.
Spoiled sport, I thought, as I leafed through the phone book, hoping her home number and address were listed.
Ah, yes, here we go, I smiled when I came upon the information.
J. Sheldon. The only J. Sheldon in the book.
I scribbled down the address. Coincidentally, Joan owned a home not far from where Ray lived—on Valor Point, a cul-de-sac off Riverside Drive near the hospital, one of the streets down which he and I had ridden on his motorcycle.
I decided I would pay Nurse Sheldon a visit later in the day—and that, to ensure that I wouldn’t be alone with a killer, I would ask Ray to accompany me.
“I thought you were mad at me,” he said after I’d contacted him at work and requested his presence at seven o’clock that evening.
“I thought you were mad at me.” I said. “Ever since we went to the beach last Sunday.”
“If I was, I’m over it,” he said. “Now, about showing up unannounced at Hirshon’s nurse’s house. Have you considered that this ambush of yours might piss her off—enough for her to call the cops?”
“If she’s Jeffrey’s killer, she won’t call the cops.”
“If she’s his killer, she might kill us.”
“That’s why I’m inviting you along on this outing,” I said. “There’s safety in numbers, right?”
“Not always.”
“Look, you’re supposed to be my friend. Are you coming or not?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re gonna apologize for that crack you made about Holly.”
“Holly. You mean the child you were out with last night?”
“She’s thirty-nine, Deborah. That’s not exactly jailbait. She takes care of herself, that’s all.”
“Really? Does she bathe in formaldehyde or something?”
“Your fangs are showing.”
“Sorry. I’ll behave.”
“You will if you want me to go to the nurse’s house with you tonight.”
“Okay. Just one last question, because my curiosity is getting the best of me. Are you going to see Holly again?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“I think you should see her again. I want you to find someone, Ray. I want you to fall in love and be happy.” I wished my mother could have heard that little speech. She would have been proud of me.
“Holly will be relieved to know she has your blessing,” he said wryly. “Can I go back to work now?”
Joan’s house was vintage ‘70s ranch and, therefore, undistinguished, architecturally. But it was on the water; it was sprawling, as if it had been added on to in recent years; and it was expensively landscaped. I had hoped to surprise Joan so that when Ray and I rang her doorbell, she wouldn’t have time to peek out the window and pretend she wasn’t home. But thanks to the Pontiac’s muffler, which the mechanic hadn’t even bothered to mention because it so obviously needed to be replaced, we pulled into Joan’s driveway with the subtlety of a garbage truck.
Still, we tiptoed up her front steps. I rang the bell.
We waited for several seconds before we heard Joan padding through the house.
“Who is it?” she called out.
Ray and I kept silent.
“Anybody there?”
Just as I’d hoped, she couldn’t resist opening the door and sticking her head out, at which point Ray forced the door open farther, allowing us to slip inside the house.
She scowled at me as we all stood in her foyer. “I said I wasn’t talking.” It was only seven-fifteen, but she was already in her nightgown, and her hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders instead of in its usual tight bun. And then there were her slippers—the huge, fluffy kind that resemble Plush toys; hers were in the shape of cats, not unlike her real-life cat, Sheldon, a cute little tabby that was gray with black stripes.
“Won’t you give us a few minutes?” I pleaded. “I really am considering starting up a private-label vitamin business and I’d be extremely grateful for your input.”
“Then what’s he doing here?” she said, nodding at Ray. Did she know him? I wondered. Did she recognize him as the husband of Jeffrey’s former patient, the woman who’d gone into cardiac arrest during the birth of her child? There was only one way to find out.
“He’s my accountant,” I said with a straight face.
Ray picked up the thread beautifully. “Bob Kleinfeld,” he said, pumping Joan’s hand. “I’m a CPA down in West Palm Beach. Deborah asked me to advise her about the tax ramifications of launching her own venture.”
Joan sighed. “I’m not up on tax ramifications, but I’ll give you five minutes. That’s it.”
“We appreciate it,” I said.
She flipped on a few lights and led us into her den, a room filled with clutter, not to mention cat litter. The stench was so bad I attempted to talk and hold my breath at the same time, which is instinctive under such circumstances but ultimately impossible.
“What do you want to know about the vitamins?” Joan asked after the three of us were seated. “As I told you, I had nothing to do with the ins and outs of the company; I just sold the pills to the patients who wanted to buy them.”
“Yes, but you are a registered nurse, aren’t you?” I said.
“I am,” she confirmed.
“Then you could tell us about the medicinal benefits of the vitamins, why the doctor prescribed them so enthusiastically,” I suggested, realizing we had to start somewhere.
“Well, the most significant feature of Heartily Hirshon vitamins is that they’re water dispersible, dry
capsules, as opposed to the oil-based softgels more commonly distributed,” Joan explained.
“Why the dry capsules?” Ray asked.
“Because Dr. Hirshon wanted the best for his patients,” she declared, “many of whom are elderly and cannot tolerate oil.”
“Is that why his vitamins are so much more expensive than the ones sold in drugstores?” said Ray. “Because they’re the dry kind?” He wasn’t guessing about the cost of the pills. I had prepped him. Very well, apparently.
“Yes, although a lot of drugstores don’t even stock powder-based vitamin E,” Joan said. “It’s usually the health food stores that carry the product.”
Ray quizzed Joan on the actual ingredients in Heartily Hirshon Vitamin E capsules. She spoke of tocopherols and IUs and D-Alpha, and expounded on the reason people should take the vitamins religiously, each and every day. (The short answer: because the actual vitamin content remains in the body for only a brief period before it’s excreted. Fascinating stuff, huh?)
My eyes glazed over as Ray continued to elicit this sort of quasi-technical information out of Joan, so I took the opportunity to look around the room, hoping against all hope that I’d find something to link her to Jeffrey’s murder.
Aside from the aforementioned cat debris, the place was crammed with knickknacks, I observed, as well as photographs in cheap plastic frames. I stole a furtive glance at the snapshots displayed on top of the round, skirted table next to me.
There were photos of a man I assumed was Samuel, Joan’s dearly departed husband, as well as photos of their two children—another assumption, based on their similar facial features.
There were photos of Sheldon, the beloved cat, curled up in Joan’s lap, curled up on her bed, curled up in one of her Plush cat slippers.
There were photos of Jeffrey throughout the ten-year period that Joan had worked as his nurse; he was pictured with and without his beard.
And, tucked way in the back, behind all the others, there was a single photo—a slightly out-of-focus shot—of Joan, Jeffrey, and a man I couldn’t identify, though there was something oddly familiar about him.