Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (11 page)

“Well, that takes care of that. Do you have any plans for tomorrow night? If not, we can do it then.”

“Mike’s on duty, so I made arrangements to have dinner with Ginger, who lives in my building.” (I don’t recall Ellen’s ever mentioning her friend Ginger without tagging on the “who lives in my building.” It appears to have replaced the girl’s last name.) “This is definitely more important, though,” Ellen said at once.

“Of course it is, but we’ve still got loads of time. We’ll drive out there next week—even if the sale is over by then.” Not that I’d have been delirious about having to fork over full price—in fact, I consider it practically un-American to miss out on a sale. Plus, the kind of fees I command in my profession haven’t exactly turned me into a Mrs. Gotrocks. Nevertheless, just about anything was preferable to a second encounter with Minnie.

“No, no. We’ll drive out to Englewood tomorrow. You’re so busy with that investigation of yours that if we put this off, something’s liable to crop up, and who knows when you’ll be able to spare the time to shop. Also, I forget exactly how long the sale’s supposed to last, but it’s definitely still on tomorrow.” Her voice held a smile when she added, “Listen, how would it
look if it got out that the aunt of full-fledged Macy’s buyer Ellen Kravitz went around paying retail?”

Well, like aunt, like niece, I decided, forgetting for the moment—as I so often do—that Ellen and I aren’t even blood relations. She’s the daughter of my late husband’s sister. But she couldn’t be dearer to me if she were my own sister’s daughter.

If I had a sister, that is.

The phone rang at five minutes past two, right after I swallowed the last mouthful of my turkey-and-brie-with-honey-mustard sandwich. It was Harriet Gould.

“I swore to myself I wouldn’t get involved in this, Dez, but well, here I am. Umm, Pop’s heading back to Florida early Saturday morning.”

“Goody.”

“Listen, no one knows better than I do what a pain in the you-know-where my father-in-law can be. But the thing is, he’s pretty depressed about not getting to see you again before he leaves. And—I can’t help it—in spite of myself I feel bad for him. I mean, he may be a little bastard, but he’s kind of a pathetic little bastard.”

Why me, God?
I was juggling a whole lot of emotions just then: resentment, annoyance, self-righteousness—and, okay, pity, with maybe a sprinkling of guilt, as well. “Damn,” I grumbled. “In case you’re not aware of it, last night was the first night since that Chinese restaurant fiasco that the man didn’t leave a message on my machine. So I had allowed myself to hope it had finally dawned on him that I wasn’t interested in continuing our passionate affair.”

“You’re not that lucky. Yesterday we were upstate visiting Pop’s great-niece, and I persuaded him to wait until we returned to our place before calling you. We didn’t get in until close to eleven, though, which is
pretty much what I figured would happen, and I convinced him it was too late to try you at that hour, that he’d only succeed in making you angry.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I can’t blame you for having had your fill of him,” Harriet said charitably. “It doesn’t take very long to reach that point. In fact, knowing that Pop’ll be around just one more day is the only thing sustaining me right now. Still—and please don’t hold it against me for butting in like this, Dez—I was wondering if you could possibly find it in that warm heart of yours to let him pay you a quick visit after you get home from work tomorrow. It would mean so much to him. You don’t even have to offer him a cup of coffee. All you have to do is tolerate him for ten minutes—
ten minutes
. If he stays any longer than that, I’ll come over and drag him out by the ears. I swear.”

“I’m sorry, Harriet, but I promised Ellen we’d go shopping for my matron of honor gown Friday evening.”

“Oh, hell. And he isn’t able to make it for lunch—not that I think I could actually persuade you to do
that
again. At any rate, he has an appointment with his old doctor for a checkup at twelve-thirty.”

Now, I hadn’t intended to say it. And I certainly didn’t want to say it. But I found myself saying it anyway. “Maybe he could stop by tonight.”

“You
are
a doll. And I wish he could. But Steve’s cousin in Queens invited the whole family over for dinner.”

Well, I’d made the gesture. Was it my fault things didn’t pan out? I can’t tell you how pleased with myself—and also how relieved—I was at this juncture.

Both emotions, however, were short-lived.

“Dinner’s not until eight, though.” Harriet spoke slowly, turning things over in her mind. “Which means we wouldn’t have to drive out there until after seven.” Then sounding so goddamn chipper that I felt like
punching her: “So why couldn’t he drop in to see you around six-thirty?”

As it turned out, Pop never showed that evening.

I called Harriet at a quarter of seven to find out what was what.

“You mean Pop isn’t with you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, how do you like that?” she murmured. Following which she proceeded to inform me that some tenant in the building, a young widow her father-in-law had met up with in the lobby that afternoon, thought he was “just adorable”—
she’d learn
—and had invited him to her apartment for a drink at five. It appeared, Harriet said, wonder in her tone, that the woman hadn’t tossed him out yet.

“Bless her!” I exclaimed.

“She must be crazy,” Harriet suggested.

“Or deaf,” I offered.

“Or stupid.”

“Or a masochist.”

“Or a gold digger.”

“Or a really,
really
kind person.”

Which sparkling repartee concluded with Harriet’s wry, “Nobody could be
that
kind.”

It wasn’t until I was in the taxi on my way to work Friday morning that it even occurred to me that I’d been stood up. And by Pop Gould, of all people! The gall of the man!

But an instant later I was giggling out loud. Prompting the cab driver to turn around—narrowly missing a bus in the process—and give me one of those “I’ve picked up another nutcase” looks. I hadn’t been able to contain myself, though. After all, I’d been spared what might well have turned out to be the worst ten minutes of my life, and here I was, bitching about it.

It’d serve me right, I decided, if—heaven forbid!—Pop made a return visit to New York soon.

I didn’t arrive at the office until just before ten. But it was obvious I was still in favor with Jackie, because she forbore chastising me with so much as a raised eyebrow.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries I hurried back to my cubbyhole, where I wasted no time in dialing John.

He was fine, there’d been no “incidents” since we’d spoken on Wednesday, and naturally he was being cautious. I was not to worry.

“How are things going?” he asked then.

I had to admit there was nothing to report.

“Well, you’ll come up with something,” he responded gallantly. “I know you will.”

Immediately after we hung up I was on the phone with Sara Sharp.

“Yes, this is Mrs. Sharp. You’re investigating Edward’s death, you say?” The voice was low and pleasant.

“That’s right. I was hired by John Lander. Whoever killed your husband has also made two attempts on Mr. Lander’s life.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very serious.”

“Oh, my God! Is he all right?”

“Fortunately, yes.”

“And you believe the same person who shot Edward was responsible?”

“I’m all but certain of it.”

“Oh, my God,” she repeated, more softly now. An extended silence followed, the woman apparently needing some time to absorb the disturbing news. Then she said firmly, “I’m assuming the purpose of your call is to question me. But I’ve already spoken to the police about my husband’s death, and I was no
help at all, I’m afraid. As for John, I can’t even imagine who might have attacked him.”

“The thing is, you may be in possession of some important piece of information without even being aware of it. And that information could lead me to uncover the perpetrator. If we could just get together for a few minutes I’d—”

“I’m sorry, but I’m still pretty traumatized by the murder of my husband”—this was attested to by the catch in her throat—“and I’m really not up to going over all of that again, especially since I have nothing to tell you.” She sounded as if she might be only a breath or two away from tears. Nevertheless, I made myself persist.

“Please don’t think I’m insensitive to your loss, Mrs. Sharp. I’m very, very sorry about your husband. And I wouldn’t pressure you like this if it wasn’t my experience that people often know a lot more than they realize they do. I’ve seen that sort of thing dozens of times.”

“Maybe you have,” Sara Sharp retorted brusquely, evidently having sidestepped the tears. “But that’s not true in this instance. Why don’t you leave me your number, though? I’ll be sure to call you if anything occurs to me. You’ll have to excuse me now, Ms. Shapiro; I have a great deal to do.”

I had no doubt she was about to put down the phone, so in my most commanding tone I shouted, “Wait!”

“What is it?”

“I have one last question.”

“Which is—?” the exasperated woman demanded.

“How would you feel if something were to happen to Mr. Lander—and you hadn’t even
tried
to prevent it?”

“But I have no idea who’s trying to harm him. Honestly.”

“And you’re sure there isn’t some tiny scrap of information you might have overlooked?”

“Yes, I am.”

The pit-bull gene that must have been passed down to me from some long-expired relative, however, refused to take that yes for an answer. “Remember, Mrs. Sharp, John Lander’s life is at stake.”

Seconds ticked off before the response. “Well . . . I’m 99 percent sure, anyway.”

And right then I knew I had her.

My conversation with Sara Sharp left me feeling pretty good about things. Not only had I succeeded in persuading her to meet with me, but I was more hopeful than I had any right to be about the outcome of that meeting.

It didn’t take long, however, for anxiety to set in. What if it was just as the woman claimed: that she really didn’t have anything to tell me? I mean, where in heaven’s name did I go from there?

I realized that if I wanted to get any work at all done before tomorrow’s eleven-thirty appointment with the widow, I’d have to drag myself out of what was rapidly turning into a semidepression.

Somehow I succeeded in barring from my mind both the pending get-together and the fears I’d managed to conjure up with regard to it. Sort of, at any rate. But while I painstakingly studied my notes, my concentration wasn’t what it should have been. And every few pages I fretted about what I might have missed.

At three-thirty I finally gave up and closed the folder.

I was able to reach Ellen at home, my niece having given herself a mental health day (something I should have considered, too). And we agreed that our scheduled five o’clock drive out to New Jersey should be pushed up an hour. Then after a brief visit to the
ladies’ room followed by the mandatory detailed explanation to Jackie, I was ready to go gown-hunting.

The shop was in a white-shingled, two-family house that looked exactly like every other white-shingled two-family house on the block. Except that this one had a sign that read “Brides by Genevieve.”

I’d taken only about five or six steps into the showroom, with Ellen immediately preceding me, when I had a conniption.

The nerve! She’d told us Thursdays and Saturdays that last time, and we made our plans, Ellen and I, to accommodate her schedule. Yet here she is on a Friday, big as life. Uh-uh, bigger!

She hadn’t seen us yet; her back was to the door. So I gave Ellen’s arm the slightest little yank with the intention of dragging her out of there as fast as these short, underused legs could manage it.

Ellen’s loudly proclaimed “Ouch!” however alerted the occupants of the room to our presence.

Minnie whirled around to face us, a smile of recognition instantly spreading over her face.

“Well, look who’s here! Auntie! And Elaine, isn’t it?”

“No, Ellen,” my niece corrected politely.

“Yes, of course. You bought that
gorgeous
lace dress—you were a vision in it, too. See? I remember.” She narrowed her eyes. “Say, has anyone ever told you that you look like Audrey Hepburn?” A blushing Ellen opened her mouth—to protest modestly, I’m sure—but Minnie barreled ahead. “Don’t you think so, Auntie?”

Well, of course, I’ve been saying this same thing for ages, but I’m always happy to hear it verified. No matter who’s doing the verifying. “She’s the spitting image of her,” I answered proudly.

“Well, let’s not go overboard.” And now my
favorite saleswoman returned her focus to Ellen. “You’ve come in to select your headpiece this afternoon, am I right?”

“Umm, not exactly.” Ellen was peering at me helplessly.

I took her off the hook. “Actually, I thought I’d check and see if you had anything for me. I’m the matron of honor. But you’re pretty busy today”—I indicated the other three people there with an expansive gesture—“so I think it would be better if we stopped by another time.”

Minnie laughed. Or to be more accurate, she cackled. “Uh-uh, you’re not getting away that easy. It happens that I’m free as a bird at the moment. That one’s waiting for her fiancé to pick her up.” She tilted her head in the direction of a very pretty girl sitting at one of the small round tables that dotted the showroom. “And little Donna over there?” Minnie was jerking her thumb toward another table at which a chubby teenager was arguing loudly with a visibly perturbed but more circumspect older woman—most likely her mother. “She’s being helped by my sister Francesca.”

Suddenly Minnie sidled closer to me, leaving no more than a claustrophobic six inches between us. Automatically, I backed away. Minnie was undeterred. Leaning over and bending way down to reach the vicinity of my ear, she put a cupped hand to the side of her mouth. There was a hint of malice in her eyes when she whispered, “You wanna guess my sister Francesca’s real name? It’s Fannie.”

“Listen, I have sort of a headache, so maybe—”

“We’ve got aspirin and Tylenol. What’s your poison?”

“I think it would make more sense if we did this another day.”

“Look, why don’t you sit down and relax for a few
minutes? In the meantime I’ll show you a couple of gowns—only a couple—and if you don’t like either of them, you can cut out. Fair enough?”

“I’d rather—”

“Come. Take a load off.”

I found myself dutifully following the woman, Ellen close behind me. Wuss that I am, I didn’t know what else to do.

Well, this provided me with the perfect view of Minnie’s rear. A treat I’d gladly have forgone.

Now, while I admit that I myself have more than adequate natural padding, I do avoid the kind of clothes that make me appear to measure practically the same across as I do up and down. So I couldn’t help shaking my head over Minnie’s choice of apparel.

She’d encased hips the width of your average New York City kitchen in an outfit that not only called attention to her girth, but practically screamed it. As on our last visit here, she wore a muumuu, but this one actually managed to outdo that other nifty little number—something I wouldn’t have thought possible. I mean, the flowers on the thing were positively huge and in the most vivid shades imaginable. But it wasn’t just the dress that was so outlandish. You had to factor in the profusion of bangle bracelets that covered both arms almost to the elbows. Not to mention the scuffed gold sandals, which were further enhanced by purple toenail polish (the polish, by the way, matching not only our girl’s fingernails but her lipstick, too). And, oh yes, perched precariously atop Minnie’s sparse yellow curls was a rhinestone butterfly.

Ellen and I had just settled in our chairs when a tall, slender woman emerged from the back of the house. She had short auburn hair and nice, even features. And she was impeccably turned out. The black silk pants and long-sleeved black silk shirt fit as if they were made for her. (Very possibly because they were.) Draped over the newcomer’s arms were three dresses,
which she was carrying across the room to the now noncombative young Donna and companion.

This couldn’t be Francesca, Minnie’s sister—could it?

I asked myself.

Nah,
I promptly answered myself.

Minnie, who was standing over us, aimed a purple-painted thumb at the object of my deliberations. “Francesca, formerly known as Fannie,” she said tartly.

Well, how do you like that!
I was still marveling at the fact that these two had been born of the same parents, when Minnie announced, “Pink.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Pink is your color.”

“I don’t want to limit myself like that.”

“You leave everything to me. I’ve got thirty years of experience to tell me what’s right for my customers. I’m not only talking about color, either. What I want you to keep in mind is that someone of your weight has to be extracareful about the lines of a garment, as well.” (I really appreciated these words of caution, coming as they did from a giant lump parading around in a neon-hued muumuu.) “You seem offended, Auntie, and you shouldn’t be. I’m not casting any aspersions. I’m a fat lady, too, remember?” And she punctuated this with one of her extremely irritating cackles.

Well, I think you can see what I meant about Minnie. Being in her immediate vicinity had the same effect on me as listening to someone scrape his fingernails on a blackboard. And if I heard that “Auntie” one more time, I might be seriously tempted to take out a contract on the woman.

“So what’s it going to be—long or short?” she demanded.

“Long.” Ellen was the one to respond, probably because she noticed that I was busily engaged in gnashing my teeth.

Minnie nodded her approval. “Good.” She turned to me. “It won’t make you look as dumpy. Be back in a jiff.”

The instant Minnie was out of earshot Ellen said softly, “I hope you’re not paying any attention to that stupid cow.” And placing her hand gently on my arm, she favored me with a tentative smile. “You’re not the least bit dumpy-looking, honest to God.”

“Don’t worry, Ellen. That didn’t bother me.” (Not precisely true.) “
Minnie
is what bothers me. How would you feel about our picking up and getting the hell out of here?”

“If you want to,” Ellen reluctantly agreed. “They have such lovely things, though, so if you could possibly manage to put up with her . . .”

I thought for a moment. “You’re right, I suppose. After all, we’re already here. I’ll just have to try my best to tune her out.”

Seconds later Minnie returned. Her “couple of gowns” adding up to four.

“You’re gonna love this. It’s my favorite,” she told me, holding up the first of her selections. Pale pink chiffon, the dress had a low, round neck, long sleeves—and bugle beads strewn over virtually every inch of it. I’m not claiming it was ugly or anything. But it was a little too
too
for me, if you know what I mean. I said as much to Minnie who, I was pleased to note, took it personally.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Trust me, it’ll look sensational on you. A friend of my sister Gertie’s—that’s Genevieve to you—wore a gown exactly like this to her son’s wedding last month, and it was the hit of the affair. I can let you have it for half price, too.”

“Incidentally, where is she—your sister Genevieve?”

“Home with the flu all this week. And you’re lucky
she is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here to take care of you. I’m sure I told you this—I guess you forgot—but normally I only work Thursday nights and Saturdays. Anyway, Gertie’s a string bean like your niece. She really hasn’t got a clue about what’s becoming to girls built like you and me. But never mind. Just slip into this as a favor to me. I promise you’ll thank me for making you do it.”

“Listen, Minnie, I have no intention of getting into a gown I don’t even like.” I half hoisted myself out of the seat. I’d had enough.

“Okay, Auntie, okay. Keep your panties on. Far be it from me to force a customer into anything.”

The second dress, to my astonishment, was pale yellow. An ankle-length, modified A-line, it had a vee neck and graceful butterfly sleeves. The only ornamentation was a double row of seed pearls outlining the bottom of the sleeves.

“I just brought this out to prove to you that pink is your color,” Minnie informed me as I fingered the delicate silk fabric.

“I love it,” I declared.

“Really?” She hastily stuck the gown under my chin. Then, her finger to her cheek, she pretended to check out the effect. “I’m not ashamed to say I was wrong. It happens that this particular shade of yellow is very nice with your skin tones. Shall we try it on?”

“
We
certainly shall,” I responded, unable to resist interjecting a bit of sarcasm, which Minnie either wasn’t aware of or chose to ignore.

At any rate, I’m delighted to report that the dress fit beautifully—or at least it would after a couple of minor alterations. Even lacking those, however, Ellen oohed and aahed all over the place. To say nothing of you-know-who.

“It’s
divine
on you,” Minnie gushed, as I stood on the platform, admiring myself in the mirror while a seamstress took in a little material here and let out
some more over there. “It’s true that I originally had pink in mind. But I get these hunches sometimes. And—I don’t know—something told me this was the dress for you.”