Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (5 page)

BOOK: Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair
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Looking up, I eked out a smile. “Yes, we did.”

“I’m gonna be in town until next Saturday,” he told me meaningfully.

I pretended I didn’t understand what he was getting at. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself, too.” I got the impression he was about to say more, so I hurriedly threw in, “You must be really anxious to see Steve.”

He considered this for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“And you have a new great-grandchild you haven’t even met yet,” I pointed out before going back to my fumbling.

“Harriet’s gonna take me over there tomorrow. I pray the kid should only be smarter than his father—my grandson, that dope. But anyways, I’ll be free later on—in the evening. Maybe you’d like to go to that deli on the Lower East Side we ate in once. But only the two of us this time, okay? We had a lota fun at that place, too, ’member?”

Words failed me—almost. Again interrupting the search for my keys, I gave the man my complete attention. “Yes, I remember. But listen, Pop, I recently became involved in a very time-consuming investigation, and I’m too bogged down with work to accept any more dinner invitations for quite a while. Umm, thanks for asking, though.”

“If you don’t desire to go back to the deli, we could go somewheres different,” he cajoled. “All you gotta do is name it. And I don’t want you should be concerned. You could even pay for yourself so’s you wouldn’t feel obligated in any way—if you take my meaning. Unless,” he added slyly, “you
want
to be obligated.”

Why, that cheeky little bugger!
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. How did I get so lucky, anyway? I mean, first there was the Don Juan of the elevators, and then this randy geriatric here. And all in one day, too! “Uh, that’s very thoughtful of you, Pop, but I’m afraid I don’t have the luxury of a social life right now.”

“Well, I’ll give you a call anyways. You never can tell what’ll be.” And with this, he leaned over to kiss me. Fortunately, my reflexes are in much better shape than my body parts. Just in time I turned my head, and the kiss landed harmlessly on my cheek.

Pop chuckled. “Okay, okay. But what was it that O’Reilly lady said?”

“O’Reilly lady?”

“I’m surprised at you! You never heard of Scarlett O’Reilly?” He wagged a finger in my face. “ ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’
That’s
what she said.”

Chapter 10

Safely on the other side of the door now, I leaned heavily against it, giving in to the strain this evening with Pop had produced. Not even the fact that the doorknob was boring into my lower back could induce me to move.

I tried telling myself I should take some satisfaction from having done a good deed tonight—two of them, actually. I’d helped out a friend and made an old man happy. Then I recalled that familiar saying about no good deed going unpunished. From here on in—until Pop left for Florida, at any rate—the answering machine would have to screen every one of my calls.

On reflection, however, I had to concede that this was really no big deal—and doubtless the price that all of us sex symbols had to pay.

 

Well, I could say one thing for Pop: He’d managed to chase everything else from my thoughts.

But later, after I’d finally unglued myself from that door and gone to bed, John Lander put in an appearance—figuratively speaking, naturally—refusing to let me sleep.

I liked John. I really did. Of course, I make an effort to like all my clients, and for the most part, I succeed. The way I see it, when you’re favorably disposed toward someone, you tend to try a little harder for them, whether you’re aware of it or not. In John’s
case, though, I know I’d have had those same positive feelings if I hadn’t been working for him.

The man was intelligent, pleasant, low-keyed. And what impressed me most, he was fair-minded—although, to my way of thinking, foolishly so. Take his reluctance to accept that someone in line for Uncle Victor’s fortune could be the perpetrator. He even berated himself for entertaining the
possibility
that one of these “decent” people wanted him dead. (I, however, had no such guilt pangs about making this assumption. I mean, it certainly didn’t appear that anyone else stood to gain from the demise of both John
and
Edward.)

Still, at present my admiration for my client was almost equaled by my anger toward him. How could he refuse to consider a bodyguard—especially now, when there’d been not one, but two attempts on his life? I’d been worried about the man from the beginning. But it was nothing like the fear that gripped me at this moment.

Eventually I elected to evict John Lander from my head—a must if I had any hope of getting some sleep. But he refused to budge. My concern for John kept me throwing myself all over that bed for hours, at turns pounding the pillow and then burying my face in it. At last, when the morning light was already creeping in under the shade, he wandered away, allowing me to drop off—and head straight into a nightmare.

 

The day was lovely—sunshiny and warm, but with a nice, cool breeze. John and Trudie were walking together in what I took to be a meadow. He was wearing dark pants and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. She had on a white peasant blouse and a long, billowy skirt in a lively red print, the skirt cinched by a wide black patent belt that emphasized the tiniest of waists. In my dream Trudie was younger,
more carefree than the real thing. And John had a new energy, a lightheartedness about him. The two traipsed hand in hand through the tall grass, laughing. Every so often they’d stop to admire a flower or a tree or to gaze adoringly at each other.

Suddenly it began to pour. The deluge was so heavy that the pair was unable to see much more than an inch in front of them. But now Trudie pointed to her left. Somehow she had managed to make out a house in the distance.

Soaked with rain, their clothing plastered against their bodies, the couple dashed madly in the direction of the shelter. Only to discover that there wasn’t any shelter. Instead, they had reached the edge of a cliff. Blinded by the downpour, however, they hurried on. I watched in horror as, hands still entwined, they plummeted into space—and onto the jagged rocks below.

But when I looked more closely at the woman lying motionless beside John Lander, it wasn’t Trudie’s face I saw. It was my own.

 

I was clammy and disoriented when I awoke. I pinched my left forearm to establish that I was alive. Then I glanced at the clock: eleven-ten. Well, I was rising later than I’d intended to, but I was not about to apologize for it. Don’t forget it was barely daylight when I’d gotten up yesterday (okay, so I’m taking a little poetic license here), and I hadn’t closed my eyes this morning until well after Dracula did. Plus, in between there’d been all sorts of significant and/or unnerving matters to deal with. And listen, I hadn’t exactly had a picnic in Dreamland, either.

I washed up hurriedly, then tried Scott Riley’s home number without even taking the time for a sip or two of coffee.

“Scott Riley speaking,” said a very precise voice in a register not much lower than his sister’s.
What was it with this family’s vocal cords?
I wondered,
momentarily throwing David Hearn into the mix, too. Then I remembered. Sooner or later, I thought in irritation, I was bound to absorb the simple fact that we were dealing with two different gene pools here.

I opened with, “My name is Desiree Shapiro, and I’m a—”

“I know who you are,” Scott interrupted. “I presume you’re telephoning to set up an appointment. When would you care to do this?”

I was surprised at his lack of resistance to the idea. “Well, I’d appreciate it if we could get together as soon as possible.”

“It happens that I can meet with you at any time today, including this evening. A lady friend had to cancel our date only an hour ago—she’s going out of town on business this afternoon, and she won’t be returning until Tuesday.”

We proceeded to make our arrangements, settling on five o’clock at Scott’s West Eighty-fourth Street apartment.
But why,
I asked myself in passing,
had he found it necessary to explain his availability like that?

As soon as the conversation was over, I dialed the Twelfth Precinct.

I was very anxious to reconnect with Tim Fielding. It had been quite a while since we’d last been in touch, and I was looking forward to seeing my old friend again. And who was I to complain if our little reunion would also afford me an opportunity to determine just what it was the police had on my client? Not that I expected Tim to be that forthcoming, you understand. Not at first, anyway. But it was my intention to pump him for all he was worth.

It was a letdown to be informed that Sergeant Fielding was off for the day. But then, with a mental shrug, I bounced right back. “Well, he has himself a little reprieve, that’s all,” I confided to the dead receiver in my hand.

***

Over breakfast I finally had a chance to ponder my chilling dream. What could it possibly mean: that I wanted to be in Trudie’s place, married to John?

No. While I liked John—I’ve already told you that—I didn’t
like
him, like him, as Ellen would say. The fact is, he wasn’t my type in the least, since I almost invariably fall for those skinny, sawed-off little twerps who look as if they’re in desperate need of a bit of nourishment and a lot of TLC. (I don’t know. Ed and I never had any children, so maybe it’s a nurturing thing with me.)

Okay. So what else could it mean? Did I fear that John was going to come to a terrible end and that in the process I’d go down, too?

If this was the case, why was Trudie the one who went off the cliff with him?

Oh, hell. I gave up. They say that dreams are seldom what they seem, anyway. Besides, who did I think I was—Mrs. Freud?

Chapter 11

The living room of Scott Riley’s sprawling five-room apartment was a paradigm of masculinity: dark wood walls, taupe leather chairs, cream leather sofas (there were two of these), redbrick fireplace, and a handsome mahogany bar stocked with spirits of every variety.

The setting was in sharp contrast to the man himself, a male version of the girl I’d met yesterday. What was attractive in her, however, was far less so in him. Both were short and small-boned, but whereas she looked delicate, he looked frail. The pale coloring that was such an asset to Shawna, in Scott was an almost sickly-looking pallor. Even his blue eyes were a watered-down version of his twin’s.

“Make yourself comfortable, won’t you?” he invited, waving his hand expansively to indicate the large selection of seating accommodations available. He had a precise—actually, prissy—manner of speaking. And his immaculate attire, which featured a maroon-silk ascot tucked inside his crisp, white shirt, appeared to reflect a determined striving for cosmopolitan.

“Can I get you something to drink, Ms. Shapiro?” he inquired, as I headed for the nearest sofa.

“I’d love a Coke, if you have one. And, please, call me Desiree, Mr. Riley.”

“Certainly, I have one. And I’ll be happy to call you Desiree, if you wish. Excuse me while I fetch our
drinks.” I noticed he hadn’t suggested I use
his
given name. But, as I recalled, his sister hadn’t made that offer, either.

“Ice?” he inquired from behind the bar.

“That would be great.”

A couple of minutes later he was back with a Coke for me and red wine for himself.

Handing me the tumbler of soda, he settled into one of the club chairs across from the sofa. “An exceedingly complex 1996 Cabernet Sauvignon,” he enlightened me, passing the wineglass under his nose. “Superbly balanced. After finishing the first bottle, I was unable to resist the impulse to purchase an entire case.”

At this point the Coke was about an inch shy of my lips. Scott reached over and stayed my hand. “To success in your investigation, Desiree,” he said, clinking glasses.

“Why . . . uh, thank you.” I was taken aback. I couldn’t remember any suspect’s ever doing something like that before. And Scott had to realize that’s what he was—a suspect, I mean.

“A revelation,” he pronounced, after sampling the wine. “May I pour some for you?”

“Thank you, but I’m supposed to be working now, and it doesn’t take much more than the sniff of a cork to impede my thought processes.”

“As you prefer,” Scott murmured, sounding slightly miffed. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet. “Oh, my heavens, I almost forgot. Be back in a jiff.” And he dashed from the room.

He reappeared toting a large tray from which he removed two small platters, setting them on the brass-trimmed wood table between us. These were followed by a bunch of cocktail napkins and a couple of elegant porcelain hors d’oeuvres plates. “I don’t know
where
my head is today. Do help yourself.”

On one platter was a variety of cheese wedges
surrounded by crackers, cherries, and grapes. The other held a crock of pâté, accompanied by artfully arranged toast rounds and cornichons.

I sampled the pâté first. It was nothing short of divine. And I told Scott so.

His chest seemed to puff out about six inches when he said that he’d made it himself.

Then, as I was topping a cracker with this creamy white cheese—St. André, Scott apprised me—I began my questioning. “I was advised that you’re one of the heirs to your uncle’s estate.”

Scott paused in the act of spreading some pâté on a toast round to respond. “Only a very minor one—unless something should happen to John before Uncle Victor dies. That’s why you’re here, correct? You want me to tell you where I was the night somebody attempted to do in your client.”

“Uh, yes. I’d appreciate it.”

“I was right where I am now. I had a cold for a good part of last week, thanks to a terribly inconsiderate lady friend who was far too demonstrative when you take into account how infectious she was. At any rate, I was staying in as much as I could to rest it up. I even worked out of the apartment for a couple of days—which, given that I’m an architect, presented no problem.”

“Did you happen to see or hear from anyone who can confirm you were at home that evening?”

“Earlier, yes. But not at eleven-thirty, which is the hour in question, as I understand it. Listen, Desiree, I don’t want to tell you how to conduct your business. But if I were you, I would give serious thought to the possibility that the culprit was some teenage hoodlum out to amuse himself by taking potshots at decent, taxpaying citizens. That sort of outrage occurs all too frequently these days.”

“Your sister had pretty much the same thing to say
about the incident, and I’m certainly keeping that possibility in mind.”

“Good.”

“Still, with Edward’s having been murdered just two weeks before that, well, it does seem a bit of a coincidence.”

“However, coincidences do occur. That’s why they invented a word for it.”

I grinned. “I’ve never heard the premise defended like that.”

Scott grinned back at me. “I’ll deem that a compliment, if I may. Now, as for the night Cousin Edward was murdered, I had prepared dinner for my sister that Tuesday, and we were together the entire evening. She arrived at six-thirty, and she didn’t leave for home until ten, perhaps a few minutes earlier. But I would assume Shawna’s already told you this.”

“Yes, and by the way, she said the meal was absolutely delicious. I’m trying to remember exactly what you served, though.”

“You’re checking to see if we have our stories straight, isn’t that it?” Scott challenged, looking smug. “But all right, I’ll help you out. We started with clams oreganato . . .” He went on to confirm the menu Shawna had laid out for me on Saturday, even supplying the name of the dish that had eluded her: Veal Prince Orloff. “Satisfied?” he inquired, after concluding with the crème brûlée.

“Satisfied. I have another question for you though. Where were you at around twelve-thirty yesterday afternoon?”

“I was at home, preparing another of my matchless feasts; I had dinner guests last night.”

“Would there, by any chance, be anyone who could confirm that you were in the apartment then?”

“Not a soul. I received a couple of phone calls, but it was when I was in the midst of preparing the
pâte
à choux
for my
croquembouche,
and I could not be disturbed—timing is crucial. Therefore I let the machine pick up.” He was looking at me eagerly now. “Why do you ask?”

Well, I had no intention of revealing that John had had another narrow escape, so I mumbled, “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss that.” And then so that the refusal might be slightly more acceptable to my pouting host, I added, “Not just yet, anyhow.”

Scott made a sound that was very much like a harrumph, and I quickly moved on. “Would you mind answering something else for me?”

He shrugged before responding. “Go on.”

“What was your opinion of your cousin Edward?”

“He was all right, I suppose. But both Edward and John are quite a lot older than we are—Shawna and I. So we’ve never had much of a relationship with either of them.”

“Would you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Edward?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Umm, how about John? How do you feel about him?”

“He seems to be a decent enough chap, as well.”

Did he say “chap”?
I suppressed a smile. “What about enemies? Has John ruffled any feathers that you know of?”

“No. And if you don’t mind my saying this, you don’t appear to be giving much weight to my street-crime theory.”

“I assure you, I’m not disregarding it. But when a man who is shortly due to come into a bundle is murdered, you have to at least recognize that there might have been a financial motive for what happened. And when soon after this an attempt is made on the life of the person who’s next in line to inherit, well, I’d be extremely negligent if I didn’t investigate the likelihood of a tie-in.”

Scott dug in his heels. “I still believe it was some young punk who shot at your client.”

“I’m not disputing you. In that event, though, who shot Edward?”

“This I couldn’t say. As I’ve been trying to impress upon you, I really didn’t know very much about the man, but—” Breaking off abruptly, Scott tilted his head to one side. For a few seconds he sat there silently, frowning. And when he addressed me again, he spoke slowly, his eyes focused on some point over my left shoulder. “If, however, I’m mistaken about that attack on John having been a random act, then . . .” His voice trailed off, and he blinked a few times.

“Then—what?”

“Then it’s probable that the shooting
is
connected to Edward’s death. And in that case . . .” He shook his head as if having difficulty accepting the thought.

“In that case—?” I prompted.

“It would have to pertain to Uncle Victor’s will, with the ‘perpetrator,’ as you people call it, almost certainly David Hearn.”

“Why David?”

“Obviously, I would know if it were I, and it wasn’t. I can vouch for Shawna, as well—positively. And I assure you I’d be just as convinced of this if she hadn’t been with me at the time Edward was killed. She’s simply not that sort of individual.”

“But
three more people
would have to die in order for David to inherit.” The words were out before I’d really considered them. And, to my embarrassment, the inference was pretty clear: On the other hand, just one person—my client—stood between the Riley twins and all that prosperity. “Of course,” I added in a belated—and fairly transparent—burst of diplomacy, “who’s to say David didn’t regard the rewards as worth the effort?”

I could have sung all the verses of
The Star-Spangled Banner
—including the ones hardly anyone’s
even heard of—and polished off the performance with a little tap dance (if I knew how to tap-dance, that is) in the silence that followed. At last Scott took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “I had no intention of telling you this, but the truth is, it would only be necessary for David to dispose of John in order to get his hands on a good portion of Uncle Victor’s assets.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Shawna and David—they’re involved.”

“Do you mean
romantically
?”

“I imagine you could term it that,” Scott retorted snidely.

Remembering Shawna’s comments about David Hearn—and his about her, as well—I had a real problem accepting that there could be anything between the two of them. “Are you certain? Your sister seemed almost disdainful of David.”

“I would surmise that this was designed to muddy the waters a bit. They appear determined to keep their unfortunate affair a deep, dark secret. Shawna never even told
me
about the relationship. And we’ve always shared
everything.

“How did you find out, then?”

“I did something I’m not too proud of.”

“I haven’t come here to judge you. Honestly.”

Scott hesitated a few moments before going on. “This dates back several months, Desiree, when I encountered my next-door neighbor at the food market one day. ‘I saw your sister at the theater the other night,’ she informed me. ‘She was with a very handsome fellow, too.’

“Well, Shawna hadn’t breathed a word to me about going to the theater
nor
—and this was really
so
unlike her—about having some new man in her life. Of course, I phoned her that same evening and casually mentioned what Althea Birney had had to say. Shawna insisted that Althea had mistaken her for someone else. I didn’t find that explanation terribly
satisfactory, however. You must appreciate, Desiree, that the two women have more than a nodding acquaintance. The Birneys—Althea and Clayton—have been frequent guests at my little cocktail parties, and I don’t think my sister has missed even one of those.

“Naturally, I was puzzled as to the reason for Shawna’s denial and, yes, hurt that she hadn’t seen fit to confide in me. But I elected to put the matter out of my mind. Perhaps Althea
was
mistaken, I told myself. Then several weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon, I stopped at Shawna’s. And while I was at the apartment she received a telephone call. Instantly, she became terribly flustered. She told me she’d be taking the call in the bedroom and asked that I hang up the receiver when she picked up.”

It was evident that Scott was more reluctant than ever to continue, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I only pretended to comply, however; I listened to that entire conversation. It was David Hearn on the other end of the line, and from what was said, I was able to ascertain that he and Shawna had been seeing each other for some time and that it was serious.” He seemed to be fighting back tears when he added, “I can only pray that Shawna will eventually come to recognize how unworthy he is of her.

“At any rate, I hope you believe me, Desiree, when I tell you that I’d never before stooped to a thing like that. Not even once. But this was my
sister,
and well, I cherish the woman. I had to do what was required to assure myself that she wasn’t in any sort of difficulty. You can understand that, can’t you?”

BOOK: Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair
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