Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (6 page)

“Yes, I can.”

“Of course, I haven’t let on that I know about her and David because I dare not tell her
how
I know. I’m very much afraid that she’d never forgive me.”

“Why do you think Shawna tried to keep you in the dark about the romance?”

“I presume that originally it was because I’ve always
disliked David Hearn—even when we were children. Shawna wasn’t too fond of him, either, if the truth be told. But I suppose it’s hormones
uber alles.
” With this, Scott actually turned a very becoming shade of pink. “I have no doubt, though, that she would have talked to me about it eventually if it hadn’t been for Edward’s murder and now this business with John. I would venture to say these things are what made Shawna wary of trusting even her own brother with her secret.”

“What do Edward and John have to do with it?”

“It’s quite likely that David is in dire need of funds.” And then, looking much too self-satisfied to suit me: “Apparently we have a case of like father, like son. You do know that the senior Hearn is a degenerate gambler, don’t you? Well, that day on the telephone David told Shawna that someone with a name like Righty or Lefty or some such wasn’t willing to wait much longer for what
he
—David—owed the fellow. And I gathered he wasn’t speaking about any paltry sum, either. To show you how besotted she is, my sister
pleaded
to give David the money he needed—which I assume she planned to badger our mother for. But Mr. Sir Lancelot wouldn’t hear of it. Then Shawna asked if he was going to speak to Uncle Victor about his situation, but David refused even to consider going to my uncle about any gambling debts. Shawna was very upset; she wanted to know if lover boy had any other way of getting that kind of capital, and he replied that he’d better
find
a way, that he didn’t dare not cover the bet. He spoke about his intention of tapping some wealthy friend of his for a loan. And perhaps he did inveigle that poor chap into handing over at least some of the cash he had to pay to those nasty little playmates of his. Obviously, there was no way I could find out.”

“Maybe I missed something. But I’m still having trouble doping out why the shootings would
contribute to Shawna and David’s decision to keep the love affair under wraps.”

“Don’t you
see?
No? Well, I’ll explain. Edward has been killed, and if John were to meet a similar fate before Uncle Victor dies, Shawna and I would inherit. Now, say Shawna and David marry, God forbid—although at present this seems to be what they have in mind—David Hearn would then share in Shawna’s portion of Uncle Victor’s fortune. And incidentally, believe me when I tell you that a mere
fraction
of my uncle’s assets is enough to entice someone lacking moral fiber into behaving in a . . . let’s call it an
unfortunate
manner. Particularly one of David Hearn’s station.”

“Station”? Why, you little snob, you!
But aloud, all I said was “Oh?” accompanying this with one of my most lethal looks.

Either impervious to or unaware of my reaction, Scott went on. “At any rate, if David is still up to his ears in debt, and if it should come out that he’s now a step closer to a great deal of money, I presume that the police would regard him as a very attractive suspect. And even if he
has
managed to straighten out his finances, David’s fondness for gambling is, in itself, a flashing red light.”

Still fuming at Scott’s use of the phrase “one of David Hearn’s station,” I inquired spitefully, “And you really feel that David would be satisfied with having access to only Shawna’s half of the estate?”

Scott turned slightly green now, a color that was not nearly as flattering to him as the earlier pink. “I haven’t really given that any thought, but I don’t imagine he’d have any recourse. Shawna would never allow anything to happen to me.”

I refrained from countering with something like, “Maybe it would be out of her control.” Which not only would have been very not nice but, I could see,
was totally unnecessary, my host’s complexion putting a lie to the assurance of his words.

Only seconds after this, however, he brightened. “Say, has it ever occurred to you that it was your client who killed Edward and that he only
pretended
to be attacked in order to divert suspicion from himself?” Obviously my host was no longer able to tolerate the idea that if David Hearn was, in fact, the perp, it could put him—Scott—at considerable risk. So now he was grabbing on to someone else—someone who, from his point of view, was a less ominous villain.

“No, it has not,” I answered firmly.

“John has a pretty fair motive, too, you know. Have you met Trudie—his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have to concede that there is absolutely no possibility he is experiencing any joy in living with that harridan.”

“I’m not intimate enough with the state of their marriage to make any such assumption. Besides, if John isn’t happy with Trudie, there’s always divorce. He doesn’t need his uncle’s money for that.”

I was reaching for the pâté one last time when Scott hit me with, “Ahh, but you’re mistaken there. You see, Trudie is the one in the family with the moola. John—and more’s the pity, too—has never been able to earn much of a living. I assume that’s why Trudie set him up in his own real estate company a few years ago, which, so I’ve been told, cannot be characterized a success by even the most lenient of standards. Furthermore, she continues to finance this failing venture of his.”

Scott looked at me intently now, his eyes fastened on mine. “Without that inheritance, Desiree, the poor chap has a Hobson’s choice: He can either remain with that wretched woman forever or he can wind up on the street.

“Chilling, isn’t it?” he concluded with a sardonic smile.

Before I left the apartment, Scott had extracted my solemn word not to let on to a soul how I’d learned about the affair between his sister and David Hearn. Actually, though, I couldn’t see any purpose in divulging this information to anyone anyway.

The Shawna/David relationship aside, however, Scott Riley had certainly given me a lot to chew over. In fact, on the ride home I was hardly able to make a dent in it all. But what I wasn’t able to cover in the cab I reviewed during dinner, contemplated with my coffee, and ruminated on in bed.

Just consider the various theories the man had put forth.

There was his suggestion that it had been teenage punks who’d shot at my client. But now, going over this in my mind, I wondered if he’d ever believed—
seriously
believed, that is—any such thing. Look, if Scott hadn’t been responsible for the events of the last couple of weeks—and, of course, presupposing he was convinced that his sister’s hands were equally clean—then it stood to reason he would regard David Hearn as the logical perpetrator. But, the trouble was, this could mean that Scott’s own life might be in jeopardy.

Well, maybe the man just wasn’t ready to come to terms with that possibility. So choosing not to acknowledge any connection between the attacks on his two cousins, he’d banished the idea of David’s guilt
to the back of his mind. At the same time, he’d conjured up that random act business to provide himself with an explanation for someone’s taking aim at John.

On the other hand, though, today’s mention of underage thrill-seekers might only have been the jumping-off point. It was not unlikely that Scott had planned all along to work his way up to an attempt to implicate David Hearn in the crimes.

But if that
was
the case, I put to myself, why, after finally naming David, had the fellow suddenly shifted focus and served up my client to me as a suspect? Perhaps, I reflected, this about-face was another manifestation of Scott’s shrinking from the personal danger his David theory could entail. (I’d even speculated about that at the time, remember?) Apparently overcome with fear, he’d supplied himself and—as a by-product, really—yours truly with an alternative perp.

At this moment, however, something else occurred to me.

What if it had suddenly dawned on Scott that Shawna might have been her lover’s accomplice? This would almost certainly have prompted him to move away from David and point the finger elsewhere. Listen, if there was one thing I’d have been practically willing to swear to, it was that Scott was every bit as devoted to his twin as he professed to be.

And just what did I think of the notion that John had murdered his cousin Edward and that his own near-fatal encounters, therefore, were pure fiction?

Well, in the first place, from what I knew of my client’s character, I found it pretty hard to take this seriously. Even going on the supposition that he was absolutely miserable with Trudie—and no outsider could really attest to something that personal—I just wasn’t able to picture a man like John resorting to murder in order to become independent of his wife’s largesse. But okay, let’s say I’d totally misjudged him. And let’s say, too, that he was desperate to terminate
the marriage without—as that little snot Scott Riley had put it—ending up on the street. Then the obvious question was: Why kill
Edward
? After all, according to Scott, Trudie was a wealthy woman. And it seemed to me there was every likelihood that John was her heir. (I made a mental note to verify these things.) So what I’m getting at is, why not murder
her
? Maybe his spouse’s demise wouldn’t have been quite as advantageous to him money-wise as his cousin’s, but this way John would have gained his financial freedom
and
extricated himself from an unhappy union in the process. What’s more, he wouldn’t have had to wait all these years to get out from under.

Sorry, Scott. I can’t say whether David did the deed; I’m only confident that John didn’t.

Now, so far I’d tabled the possibility that Scott himself might be the assailant. But it was time to consider this and, almost simultaneously, to take a look at Shawna, as well.

Neither had an alibi for the night somebody took that shot at John. Nor could Scott account for his whereabouts yesterday afternoon, when John had again come close to winding up a statistic. Furthermore, there was only the twins’ word that they’d had dinner together at Scott’s on the evening of Edward’s death. Of course, it was conceivable that they’d lied in an innocent, if misguided, attempt to shield each other from coming under suspicion. But it was also conceivable that the two of them had conspired to rid themselves of the front-runners for Uncle Victor’s fortune. (Assuming, that is, Shawna hadn’t teamed up with David Hearn on this project.) As to the pair’s reciting the same menu—puleeze. What was to prevent them from agreeing on those dishes beforehand? To be honest, I can still feel my face getting hot whenever I recall that I’d actually been silly enough to ask about that. I mean, how pathetic!

It was early morning when I got around to
concentrating on Scott as a person. And I had to admit that there was a lot about the man that puzzled me.

Naturally, there were a few things I knew for certain, along with others I was fairly sure of.

As I told you before, I had little doubt as to the depth of his feelings for his sister. I could also state unequivocally that Scott Riley was intelligent. And that he was a snob—this wasn’t even open for argument. Plus, he had very sophisticated tastes and, evidently, the wherewithal to indulge them. So I could assume that Scott was at least moderately successful in his profession. Either that, or the fellow had access to another source of capital that could support his kind of lifestyle. Which got me to thinking about how at odds his apartment was with his persona.

The furnishings in that place practically screamed, “Property of a man with a high level of testosterone!” Yet here was about as prissy an individual as I’d ever encountered—effeminate, almost. Why would someone like that surround himself with such masculine trappings? And, in fact, why make it a point to throw in those out-of-left-field references to a “lady friend”?

Was Scott gay—and attempting to disprove it? Or was he straight—and trying to establish it?

I pulled myself up short. I’d been spinning my wheels for no reason except that a busybody is a busybody is a busybody. After all, what did the man’s sexual orientation have to do with anything?

And now I glanced at the lighted digits on my bedside clock: 3:14, for heaven’s sake!

It was at this point that I abandoned any further conjecture about Scott Riley’s manhood in exchange for a few hours’ sleep.

It wasn’t easy to coax myself out of bed on Monday. And it had very little to do with my being awake most of the night before. The fact is, I had my annual gynecologist’s visit at 9
A
.
M
. , something I wasn’t looking forward to in the least. And not merely because of Dr. Cantor’s probing finger, either.

It was really the whole setup in that office of hers. Just listen to the drill, for heaven’s sake.

First you have to be prepared to spend as long as an hour in the crowded waiting room. Which can be so packed that everyone is forced to jockey for seats. But then when you’re finally ushered into the examining room, things get a whole lot worse.

You’re commanded to remove every stitch of clothing and put on this flimsy paper gown—“the opening to the front.” Now you can anticipate another endless stay. And, believe me, once you set foot in the examining room, you actually look back with nostalgia to that waiting room wait.

The only furniture in here (besides the mandatory examining table and stool, of course) is a single, hard wooden chair, with dimensions that don’t accommodate much more than half of a good-sized posterior—something I can definitely lay claim to. There isn’t even one of Dr. Cantor’s six-month-old-plus magazines to occupy you, either. Worst of all, however, is that in this near-naked state, you’re blasted
unmercifully by an air conditioner that has to be at least 14,000 BTUs—and in a space that’s no more than eight-by-ten, tops. (For some reason that I’ve never been able to fathom, they even have that damn thing operating in the dead of winter.)

At any rate, getting back to this particular morning . . .

Before leaving the apartment, I’d taken a couple of steps to ensure that my incarceration in the dreaded examining room was going to be slightly more tolerable today. In addition to a sweater—which in the past helped a little but not nearly enough—I’d shoved a pair of calf-length wool socks in my bag. And I remembered to bring along a brand-new paperback, too.

You can’t imagine my shock when after fifty minutes in the waiting room, Tina, Dr. Cantor’s office assistant, marched me into the examining room—and it was like an oven! I mean, it was so hot you could toast marshmallows in the place.

“This air conditioner just went on the blink,” Tina explained. “Umm, Dr. Cantor should be in shortly, though,” she threw out before fleeing.

Well, it didn’t take more than a few seconds to convince me that I now knew what hell was like. I figured if I read—until I passed out, that is—maybe I’d focus on something other than the temperature. But when I got out my paperback, I discovered that I’d grabbed the wrong book—this was the one I’d finished last week!

So for the next quarter hour I just sat there and stewed. In every way a person can stew.

By this time you may be asking why I hadn’t found myself another gynecologist. A fair question. And the answer is, I honestly don’t know. I never seemed to get around to it. Besides, according to my experience—along with everything I’ve heard—Dr. Cantor is a very capable physician. What’s more, she’s a pleasant human being, another quality I value in a doctor. Still, I make an annual vow that
I’ll talk to her about this ridiculous system of hers. But thanks to that bright yellow streak down my back, the only one I wind up lecturing is myself—for chickening out yet again.

Today, however, I had reached the end of my rope. In a little while (I hoped) Dr. Cantor would be hearing how inconsiderate it was to have her patients hanging around interminably before getting to see her. I mean, didn’t it ever occur to her that the rest of us had
lives
? That we had things to do and places to be? And don’t think she wouldn’t be getting an earful with regard to these appalling waiting conditions, as well.

At any rate, I had my speech pretty much down pat when there was a soft knock on the door, following which Dr. Cantor, a plucky smile on her face, hobbled into the room. On crutches!

Well, that ended that. After all, how could I lace into a woman who wasn’t even able to stand on her own two feet?

It was close to eleven when I walked into Gilbert and Sullivan, the law firm that leases me my office space.

Now, most people laugh when they hear that name, and I can hardly blame them. I did a fair amount of tee-heeing myself initially. But there’s absolutely nothing funny about being on the receiving end of one of the sweetest deals in Manhattan.

Of course, my office
is
tiny. But then, the rent is, too. Plus, without paying an extra cent, I get to share the services of the best secretary in New York. And if that’s not enough, Elliot Gilbert and Pat Sullivan are two exceptionally nice guys who throw cases my way whenever they can.

Jackie, the aforementioned best secretary in New York, acknowledged my entrance with a frown. “I thought you were being held hostage,” she cracked.

“I told you I’d be pretty late, remember? My gynecologist appointments take forever.”

“Yeah. Only it seems you’re there longer every year. But never mind. Is everything okay?”

“Dr. Cantor says I’m fine. Did I get any calls?”

“Not a one.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Say, want to have lunch later? There’s this new restaurant that opened only about three blocks from here—Chinese. It’s supposed to be terrific.”

“I’d better not. I’ve got quite a bit of work to catch up on; I’ll grab something at my desk in an hour or so.” I didn’t feel it necessary to mention that I’d had Chinese food the day before yesterday. Or that the last new neighborhood restaurant Jackie had promoted had gifted her with a dandy case of food poisoning.

“My, my, you
are
a busy lady, aren’t you?” Jackie’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

I suppose you’ve already gathered that when I spoke about her being such an excellent secretary, I wasn’t factoring in the woman’s disposition. Frankly, there have been any number of instances when I’ve been sorely tempted to bring my foot in direct contact with Jackie’s derriere. But while she can be just plain impossible, she’s also an extremely loyal and caring friend. And I like her a lot—particularly when she’s not driving me up a wall. Reminding myself of this, I bit back the sharp retort that had been about to exit my mouth, going with an attempt to placate her instead. “If I didn’t have all these notes to—”

“Never mind,” she grumbled, turning to her computer and starting to type. “Lately it’s been one excuse after another.”

“Listen, I’m genuinely sorry I can’t make it. Let’s get together later in the week, okay?”

Jackie’s eyes remained fixed on the computer screen. It usually takes a while to get back in her good graces—the amount of time depending on the severity of the infraction. “We’ll see,” she pronounced.

She was certainly having one of her testier days, I
decided as I made my way down the hall. The thing is, though, when Jackie gets in a snit it’s normally because I’ve actually
done
something she frowns upon. Which, granted, can encompass a wide variety of sins—everything from neglecting to apprise her of my whereabouts to forgetting a dental appointment to taking up with a man she doesn’t approve of. But I couldn’t recall her ever acting that touchy about my not being able to have lunch. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it was something else that was troubling her. Most likely a spat with Derwin, her tightfisted, years-older significant other. Well, they’d work it out. They always did.

As soon as I was settled in my minuscule office (my
affordable
minuscule office, that is) I phoned the Twelfth Precinct. My old pal Sergeant Fielding wasn’t in just then, and I was advised to try again around four.

Trudie Lander was next on my list. She seemed slightly taken aback to hear from me but agreed to a meeting readily enough. We set it up for Wednesday at two-thirty at a coffee shop not far from her Greenwich Village apartment.

After this I attempted to get in touch with David Hearn at the Manhattan DA’s office. A very pleasant woman informed me that he was in court and wasn’t expected back today.

At this point I couldn’t come up with another reason to postpone dealing with the major project that lay in wait for me. Resignedly, I picked up the Lander file, switched on the computer, and began transcribing my notes of the past few days.

Now, being that I’m the slowest typist I know, this was a pretty intimidating task. And I have a couple of habits that stretched out the chore even further. You see, instead of waiting to study the material until it’s typed, which makes sense, I have a tendency to
pore over the information as I go along, which doesn’t—make sense, I mean.

Anyhow, I had been at that computer for almost two hours when I finally acknowledged how pathetically little I’d accomplished. At this rate I’d be typing these same notes from my cramped little room in the retirement home.

There was only one thing to do. As frequently becomes necessary, I willed myself to keep my mind totally blank. Which wasn’t as difficult as it should have been. And while I’m not claiming that I zipped right along after that, I did make noticeable progress.

At four-fifteen I broke away from my labors and phoned Tim Fielding again.

“Fielding,” the familiar voice barked.

“This is your favorite girl detective.”

A moment’s pause. “Holy crap! And don’t flatter yourself, Shapiro. You haven’t been a girl since before women got the right to vote.”

Same old Fielding!
I should probably explain that my friendship with this man goes way back. In fact, he had been a good buddy of my husband Ed’s—they’d once worked out of the same precinct. (I did mention that Ed had been a member of the force before becoming a PI, didn’t I? At least, I think I did.) At any rate, I’m very fond of Tim, and I’m certain the feeling is mutual. It’s just that it’s become a habit with us, for some reason, to take pains not to show it. So we hide behind these innocuous little smart-ass jabs. And since Fielding had thrown down the gauntlet . . .

“It’s always so nice to talk to you, Tim,” I murmured, sounding like my tongue had been soaked in honey. “Tell me, are you still a sergeant?”

“That’s right,” he answered guardedly. “Why?”

“You know, I almost expected to hear that you’d
already made captain. By all that’s holy, you should have risen to the level of your incompetence by now.”

He chuckled. “You’re getting better at this, Shapiro, although your delivery could still use a little work. But anyway, I have this premonition that any second you’re going to tell me why I have the pleasure of hearing from you after almost a year.”

“A year? Has it been that long?”

“You bet your tush, it has. And I think you’re well aware of it, too. So? Out with it.”

“Umm, I understand you’re heading up the Sharp case.”

“Please, Desiree, say that the widow didn’t call you in on that one.”

“She didn’t.”

“Praise be to God,” Fielding mumbled.

“I was hired by John Lander to investigate the attempts on his life.”

“Damn!” he exclaimed. And after a few seconds of recovery time: “Some attempts! I can’t imagine Lander’s persuading you to swallow that garbage; I’d have thought you were smarter than that. And incidentally, it’s
attempt.
Singular.”

“No, there have now been two of them. Plural. Somebody tried to run over John on Saturday.”

“Yeah, sure they did. And I’m Peter Cottontail.”

“Listen,” I informed Tim firmly, “we really have to talk. Whenever it’s convenient for you, of course.”

“That’d be a year from next January. Seriously, Shapiro, I’m bogged down these days. Murder seems to be getting more and more popular around here. Besides, you don’t want to talk to me. You want
me
to talk to
you.
And there’s nothing I can give you right now.”

“That’s not true; I do have information that would interest you. Why don’t I stop by first thing tomorrow morning—I just need a few minutes, I swear—and we
can go over things while we’re having our coffee and donuts? My treat, naturally.”

Fielding considered this briefly before muttering his consent. “All right. Not that I believe for a second that you have anything worthwhile for me, but I suppose I might as well get you off my back. Tomorrow’s no good, though. Make it Wednesday at eight-thirty. And about the donuts, be sure you bring the kind with—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Chocolate icing and walnut sprinkles. You got it. And thanks, Tim. Uh, by the way, I probably should be committed for this, but I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

The conversation ended with a parting grunt from Tim.

As we clicked off, I found myself smiling broadly. After which, with a real sense of accomplishment, I went back to my typing.