Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (13 page)

“It didn’t go that well?”

Sara hesitated almost imperceptibly. (However, not so imperceptibly that I failed to notice.) “It was fine. But last year Trudie was set on the Caribbean, and Edward and I preferred Cape Cod.”

“Why anyone would want to be in that Trudie’s
company is beyond me,” Jane sniped. “And that goes double for your client, Desiree. How can the man stay married to somebody like her? She never gives him a chance to open his mouth, for Christ’s sake! You know something? I’ve been at gatherings with those two exactly twice. But it didn’t take me nearly that long—about five minutes, actually—to conclude that Trudie Lander is a bitch. With a capital ‘B.” ’

Sara smiled indulgently at her sibling before remarking lightly, “At any rate, you can’t complain about having to worm an opinion out of Jane, can you, Desiree?”

Well, as innocuous as that statement was, it prompted Jane to take offense this time. Which, when you think about it, is understandable. Giving Sara a hand with whatever practical matters needed to be addressed was the easy part. I mean, just consider the tension involved in helping a loved one cope with their grief. “At least I’m no phony,” the younger woman shot back.

“Are you implying that I
am
?” Sara challenged.

“Don’t be silly. I—”

“Because I’m no such thing. That’s something I shouldn’t have to tell
you,
Jane, of all people.”

“You don’t, honestly. What I said had nothing to do with you. I just meant that I believe in telling it like it is.”

“All right.” Somewhat placated, Sara managed a half smile. Then, looking her sister full in the face, she murmured thoughtfully, “Speaking generally, though, I do wish you could learn to be a little more charitable, Janie. Sometimes things happen to people that can affect them for the rest of their days.”

I pounced. “Something traumatic happened to Trudie?”

Sara turned as red as a ketchup bottle—I’m referring to a full ketchup bottle, of course. “I wasn’t talking about Trudie; I thought I’d made that clear.
Although it is conceivable, you know, that her . . . well . . . abrasive nature is the result, at least partially, of some adversity she’s had in her life.”

Naturally, no busybody worthy of that term would let her off so easily. “I hope you’re aware that I’m not jut asking out of idle curiosity; I’m trying to prevent a second homicide.” This was, at least, not a
total
lie. I mean, regardless of how much she protested, I had no doubt that when Sara delivered her little lecture to Jane she did have Trudie in mind—which, I told myself,
could
turn out to be relevant.

“But this has no bearing on your investigation.”

“Probably not. But my client’s safety may depend on my making absolutely certain of that.”

Sara frowned. “I don’t—”

“For heaven’s sake, Sara, tell her,” Jane broke in. (And, to think, I’d resented her presence!) “I’m sure Desiree’s not going to go around blabbing about it—whatever it is.”

“All right.” The sigh emanated from her toes. “But you have to give me your word that this won’t be repeated. Trudie would be devastated if it should get back to her that anyone found out.”

“Her secret is safe with me, as long as there’s no tie-in with the case.”

“There isn’t,” Sara maintained. And she pressed her fingers into service again—those on her right hand, anyhow—running them nervously through her hair. Then, her voice not quite steady, she muttered, “But at any rate, here it is. . . .

“A long time ago—when Trudie was barely thirteen years old—her uncle raped her.” She seemed to be gauging my reaction. “An experience like that, well, you can see how it might have caused permanent psychological damage, can’t you?”

“Yes,” I responded meekly, feeling guilty at that instant for ever having had a single unkind thought about Trudie Lander.

“He had warned Trudie not to tell her parents.” Sara went on. “He claimed they wouldn’t believe her, that he’d be able to convince them she fabricated the whole thing. But Trudie went straight to her father anyway, and he beat the uncle so badly that the bastard—his own brother, by the way—wound up in the hospital.”

“Please tell me the uncle ended up in jail.”

“I wish I could. But for her sake, Trudie’s parents decided not to press charges against him.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead. For over twenty years, I believe.”

The chilling revelation concluded, Sara leaned back against the sofa cushions. But she was apparently unable to resist an I-told-you-so. “See? Didn’t I say that what had occurred with Trudie was totally unrelated to the attacks on Edward and John?”

“I guess you’re right. Unless I just haven’t made the connection.”

When I said good-bye to Sara Sharp and her sister that afternoon, I was more than a little disheartened. Waiting in the hall for the elevator, I recalled how hopeful I’d been yesterday about this meeting. Initially, that is. But then almost at once I’d had to acknowledge that Edward’s widow might fail to shed any light on the crimes. And faced with that possibility, I had put a theoretical question to myself:
Where did I go from there?

I’d had no answer.

Unhappily, that question was no longer theoretical.

And still I had no answer.

I was home by two.

Now, I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Which, because I’d overslept, had consisted of only a puny little corn muffin (I swear, it was about the size of a quarter) and a cup of coffee. Yet—and I’m still marveling over this—lunch never even occurred to me. An indication, if there ever was one, of my frame of mind.

Hold on,
I finally told myself,
maybe there
had
been a clue of some kind today
. Praying that I’d been too obtuse to appreciate its significance—and hoping for a sudden infusion of smarts—I sat down at my nine-year-old Mac and began transcribing my notes.

I was at it for almost two hours, trying not to study the words but doing it anyway. If there was something of significance to be found on those pages, though, it was eluding me.

When I shut down the computer I was more disheartened than ever.

I had no idea how to proceed at this point.

Of course, I could check out Sara’s alibi for the night her husband was killed. But what reason could she have for lying about her whereabouts? I certainly didn’t suspect her of doing away with the man. After all, with Edward gone, so were his widow’s hopes of coming into all those millions. Nevertheless, I
supposed I
should
verify that she’d been at her pottery-making class as she claimed.

It was three-forty-five when I looked up the number of Going to Pot in the telephone directory. A recorded message informed me that they’d be closing at five today.

And now I suddenly realized how hungry I was. Apparently, once I was able to plan my next move—and never mind that I didn’t actually expect anything to come of it—I could focus on more mundane things. Like a stomach that was starting to give me what-for. So right before leaving the apartment, I slathered some peanut butter on a slice of Jewish rye and ate it standing up.

I didn’t want to be late for school.

Going to Pot was a storefront studio way,
way
downtown. And with the Saturday traffic extraheavy this afternoon, it took close to a full hour to get there.

When the taxi deposited me at the address, a tiny white-haired woman was already locking the door to the premises.

She turned her head, and I saw that she was surprisingly young and pretty. “Do you work here?” I asked. (Not exactly a perceptive question considering that she was holding the keys to the place.)

The woman smiled. “I suppose you could call it that. I’m the owner, as well as the sole full-time instructor—Lucinda Frankel.”

“My name is Desiree Shapiro. I’m a detective,” (okay, so I left out the “private”), “and I’m looking into the death of the husband of one of your students.”

I held my breath in anticipation of the possibility she might ask to see my shield. She didn’t.

“You mean the husband of one of my
former
students,” Lucinda said. “Understandably, Sara didn’t
continue with us after the murder. I assume you
are
talking about Sara Sharp.” I decided it was okay to resume breathing. “But a couple of detectives were here about that weeks ago.”

Oh, crap!
However, I nodded knowingly. “Sgt. Fielding and Detective Melnick.”

“Could be. I’m not very good at names. The younger one was fairly nice-looking, though.”

“Detective Melnick,” I supplied automatically.

“It’s possible,” the proprietor conceded, reddening. Then before I could get out anything more she added, “Listen, I’m in kind of a hurry right now. And I’ve already told those other detectives all I know.”

“I’m aware of that. But there’s been some mix-up—a clerical thing—and we just want to be certain we have all the facts straight.” (I mean, what else could I say?)

“I have to get home on time tonight: it’s my daughter’s first formal.”

I felt that I should acknowledge this disclosure in some way, but I had no idea as to the appropriate response. I settled on an insipid, “Oh, how nice.”

I guess it was all right, though, because Lucinda grinned proudly.

“I only have one or two matters to clarify,” I pressed. “And it won’t take more than a minute or so.” She seemed to hesitate, so I tagged on, “It could be very important.”

“We-ll . . . All right, but you’ll have to make it brief.”

It was plain that she had no intention of opening the door to the studio again. We were going to do this right here—on the sidewalk. I glanced around me. It was still light outside. The weather was warm, but not oppressively so. And the passersby of the moment looked reasonably respectable. (I chose to ignore the drunk sprawled in the doorway across the street. And
anyway, he was passed out.) “Umm, Sara Sharp. She was at school the night her husband was murdered?”

“Oddly enough she was here for the whole two hours.”

“What do you mean, ‘oddly enough’?”

“Sara rarely stayed until the class was over, which is at nine. Normally she was out of the place by eight, eight-fifteen.”

“Did she ever give a reason for cutting out like that?”

“It seems to me she may have said something the first time she did it—which, as I recall, was the same night the course began—something about some personal business she had to attend to. But I wouldn’t swear to it. It’s possible I have her mixed up with another student.” Lucinda tittered ruefully. “Not that I have so many of them that I have an excuse for being confused.”

“But you
are
sure that it was on the evening her husband died that Sara remained until nine?”

“Look, I always check the obituaries,” the woman admitted sheepishly. “So when I read about her husband’s death in the
New York Times
I thought it was kind of ironic that this was the one instance where Sara actually hung in until the bitter end. Although it wouldn’t have made any difference if she
had
taken off early. She never left before eight o’clock, and I understand that’s around the time Mr. Sharp was shot.”

Lucinda shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a good indication that she was getting antsy, so I was slightly taken aback when she continued. “Besides, I can pretty much swear that Sara wasn’t going straight home all those nights. She was meeting someone. And at the risk of sounding like a gossip—but, after all, this
is
a murder investigation and I suppose I shouldn’t hold back—I’m quite sure the man wasn’t her husband.”

“What makes you feel that way?”

“Because shortly before eight on the evening of the shooting Sara received a call on her cell phone. I was on my way to check out how another member of the class was progressing on the potter’s wheel, and I had to pass Sara to get to her. Sara had her back to me, so she didn’t see me approaching. Anyhow, the caller was evidently canceling their appointment, because I heard Sara ask, ‘Are you sure you can’t make it tonight?’ Then she said in this kind of adoring tone women don’t ordinarily waste on their husbands, ‘All right, I understand. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, so-and-so.” ’

“
‘So-and-so?’
You mean Sara mentioned a name?” I was tingling with excitement.

“I believe she did. But, unfortunately, I didn’t catch it. I was pretty much out of hearing range by then.” Lucinda was doing that foot-to-foot thing again. The only difference was that at this point she looked at her watch, as well—a pretty reliable sign that my time was about up.

“Did you tell the police—er, the officers you spoke to before—any of this?”

“They seemed to be interested only in whether or not Sara was in class that night and how long she remained. The rest of it—about her usually leaving early—that never came up. I would have volunteered the information, honestly,” Lucinda added apologetically, “but—I don’t know—it just didn’t occur to me then. Do you think it’s relevant?”

“I’m not sure yet; it could be, though. So thanks for bringing it to my—to our—attention.”

“I hope it helps.” And distributing her weight evenly then, Lucinda announced, “Well, Detective, I’m afraid there isn’t anything more I can tell you.”

And now there was no doubt at all. I was dismissed.