Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (7 page)

By the time I got home from work, I was starved. I’d had a BLT at my desk around one, but it was a
skinny
BLT. The thing is, though, I was way past due for another visit to D’Agostino’s. Fortunately, rummaging around in the freezer paid off. Hidden under a package of stale hamburger rolls was a container of leftover marinara sauce with mushrooms. So I cooked up a little spaghetti to go with it and prepared a great big salad. Later I discovered that there was also a respectable portion of Ha¨agen-Dazs macadamia brittle to accompany my coffee—a relief under any circumstances but especially when you take into account my talent in the coffee-making department.

At seven o’clock I tried David Hearn at his apartment. I was a bit surprised to find him in, and it crossed my mind that Shawna might be with him.

“This is Desiree Shapiro,” I said, “and I—”

“How are you, Mrs. Steinberg?” David joked.

Well, normally the “Mrs. Steinberg” thing would have gotten a chuckle out of me. Even if I had to force it for the sake of politeness. But at present I was hardly interested in pleasing this person that I’d begun referring to in my head as “David the Deceitful.” My attitude, I’m sure, stemming from the fact that I’d found him so likable when we met. And it wasn’t merely that I felt betrayed. Looking back, I believe that what I really held against David Hearn
was the fact that he verified my own piss-poor ability to assess people.

You’d think, though—wouldn’t you?—that by now I’d be used to having my judgment refuted. Well, apparently not. But recognizing that it was pretty much mandatory to conceal my hostility if there was any chance of persuading the guy to see me, I managed to muster up a fairly neutral tone. “I’d appreciate it if we could get together again.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” The voice seemed even higher to me than it had during our initial conversation. Which undoubtedly had more to do with my mind-set than with David’s vocal cords.

“No, I’m not. Something’s come up, and I think we should discuss it.”

“I’ve already told—”

“It would be to your benefit.”

He didn’t respond immediately, and when he did, he was obviously wary. “Is anything wrong?”

“There are a couple of matters we ought to clear up, that’s all—and as soon as possible.”

David’s “All right” was grudging. “But not tonight. I was just walking out when you phoned. How about after work tomorrow?”

“Fine.”

“I could be at your apartment around six, unless you think it would be better to do it in your office. Where is it located, by the way?”

I gave him the address.

“That would be more convenient for me—if it’s not a problem for you.”

“It’s no problem at all,” I assured him.

“Well, see you tomorrow then.” He sounded about as enthusiastic as if he’d agreed to go to a hanging—his own, I’m talking about.

It was maybe five minutes after we hung up that I reminded myself that, for one reason or another,
practically all suspects lie to you. But very few of them are guilty of murder.

And in spite of my displeasure with him, I realized that I was hoping David Hearn wasn’t one of the few.

About a quarter of an hour later, as I was getting a pencil out of my desk drawer, the phone rang. Automatically, I began to reach for it, pulling my hand back just in time.
Pop Gould!
I just knew it.

He’d left a message on my machine yesterday, while I was at Scott’s. “So, Desiree, when are we gonna have dinner?” the thin little voice had inquired. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re a busy individual. But you gotta eat, don’tcha? A person could get sick not taking in no food. You call me back—okay?—and let me know when you wanna make it.”

Understandably, I hadn’t returned the call.

Pop, however, didn’t appear to be holding this breach of etiquette against me. Because, sure enough, here he was again.

“You prob’ly didn’t get my message on Sunday—even Harriet says so. Listen, what would be so terrible if you had dinner with me this once more before I leave for Florida? Your work—whatever kind you got—will wait for you, believe me. You’ll find that out for yourself when you get to be my age—which is in the seventies.” I couldn’t help smiling at that one. “We could go anywheres you say. Anywheres,” he repeated plaintively. “And . . . umm . . . Desiree?”—I heard a sharp intake of breath now—“I’ll even pay.”

I want you to know that after listening to that recording, there was a moment when I actually considered spending a little time with Pop again—and in public, no less. I mean, to offer to pick up the tab, well, God knows why, but he had to be practically desperate for my company. And he
was
an old man. And he
wasn’t
what you could call a bad person. Not
really. Besides, before long he’d be off for Miami—and out of my hair for months.

Then it all came rushing back to me: his whining. His pettiness. His outrageous remarks. His even more outrageous behavior.

Have you completely lost your mind? What are you, some kind of masochist?
I demanded of myself.
Why not take the easy way out, and just jump off a bridge or something?

The generous impulse evaporated in an instant.

It was close to nine o’clock when I heard from Ellen.

“Are we on for Wednesday—I hope?”

“Wednesday?” I parroted.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” she accused. “Wednesday’s the day we were going to start shopping for your dress.”

“Oh, Ellen, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it.” (Notice there was no acknowledgment that our tentative plans had flown out of my head.) “But there’s absolutely no reason for you to be concerned. We have plenty of time to look around.”

Now, since Mike—her fiancé—had entered her life, my niece had become much less of a worrywart than she once was. Lately, though, with THE BIG DAY looming in front of her, the old Ellen had begun to resurface. After all, this was May, and the wedding wasn’t until December, for crying out loud. Yet here she was, already getting
agita
over my gown. Still, maybe this was only natural—with me being the matron of honor, I mean.

“I don’t want you to have to settle. And the longer you wait, the more likely that is,” she said stubbornly.

Okay. If it would make her feel better, I’d start schlepping around to the stores early. “We’ll do it soon,” I told her. “Honest.” And now, to move her off my attire, I quickly brought up Ellen’s favorite
topic: her intended. I made the mistake, however, of asking how he was doing at the hospital.

It took a good five minutes for her to relate how all his patients and every one of his coworkers at St. Gregory’s
adored
Mike, offering up a whole slew of anecdotes to drive home the message. And then, her voice filled with more pride than ever, she reported that Dr. Beaver, who was sort of Mike’s mentor—as well as St. Gregory’s top cardiovascular surgeon—had just yesterday lavishly praised both her fiancé’s technical and people skills. She appeared to have memorized the extensive comments verbatim, too, which she was delighted to share with me.

I was in the process of nodding off when Ellen finally ran out of Mike material. She switched over to the Lander investigation without so much as a pause. “What’s been happening with your new client?”

My brain must have left on vacation, because, foolishly, I started to fill her in. When I got to the part about John’s latest close call, she interrupted with a shriek, “I
told
you!”

“What did you tell me?”

“How dangerous this case was.”

Well, as you know, I’m not above employing a little white lie now and then if it’s to accomplish something worthwhile—like putting a loved one’s mind at ease, for instance. So as I had when Ellen and I talked about that first attempt to do away with my client, I presented her with a more palatable version of this latest incident, too. “Listen, Ellen, John could have been mistaken about the driver’s aiming for him. Maybe whoever was behind the wheel simply lost control of the car.”

I might as well not have spoken.

“You’ve got to be
extremely
careful, Aunt Dez. Promise me.”

Oh, we’re starting that again.
I pounded my forehead a few times before obliging. “I promise.”

“All right, then. And incidentally, you don’t really believe that—about John’s being mistaken—do you?” Ellen demanded.

“I certainly consider it a possibility.”

“If that’s so,” she countered, “I should be the private investigator in the family, not you.”

Well, so much for trying to spare her.

The phone was barely back in its cradle when John called.

“The police were just here—that Sergeant Fielding and his partner. They had a search warrant. The two of them tore apart everything that wasn’t nailed down—and some of the things that were. But don’t ask me what they were looking for—they weren’t exactly communicative. Listen, you don’t . . . you don’t think this means they’re about to arrest me, do you?”

“No, it doesn’t necessarily mean that at all. I’m meeting with Sergeant Fielding on Wednesday, though, and I’ll see what I can find out.” And now, sounding exactly like an Ellen clone, I said, “In the meantime, swear to me you’re looking out for yourself.”

“Believe me, since Saturday I’m practically on red alert.”

I could only hope this was the truth—and that his vigilance would be enough.

The “Hi, Dez,” with which Jackie welcomed me on Tuesday morning was subdued, almost shy, in fact. “I love that dress,” she said of this two-piece blue linen I’d worn to the office at least half a dozen times—and for which she had never before professed any particular affection.

Now, when Jackie has to stretch like that to deliver a compliment, it’s her version of burying the hatchet. So it was safe to assume we were friends once more.

A short while later, back in my cubbyhole, I was just beginning to transcribe the remainder of my notes when I heard a subdued little cough.

“Umm, do you think you could spare me a couple of minutes?” Jackie inquired tentatively on getting my attention. She was hovering in the doorway.

“Sure.” Turning back to my computer, I clicked on the screen saver, then swiveled in her direction. She was still hovering in the doorway.

“Listen, I could stop by again if this isn’t convenient.”

Was this really Jackie?
My
Jackie? “Don’t be silly. Come in and sit down, for heaven’s sake.”

“Thanks.” She took the few steps required to reach the single available seat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured as soon as she deposited herself in it. “The way I acted yesterday? Well, it had nothing to do with you.”
And in a whisper: “Nothing at all.” Following which she covered her eyes and burst into tears.

Jumping up, I rushed over and knelt beside her chair. “What is it, Jackie?”

She shook her head in response.

I placed my hand on her arm and gave it a squeeze, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do. I’m absolutely pathetic when it comes to that sort of thing.

In a minute or so the sobs were reduced to snuffles. I continued to crouch there in acute discomfort (but after all, my good friend was in crisis), as Jackie dug into her skirt pocket and, extracting a handful of tissues, pressed them into service. “I apologize, Dez,” she murmured, managing a small, wan smile. “I didn’t mean to drown you. I thought I was all cried out by now.”

“Please, Jackie. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s about—Derwin.” She ran her fingers through her short blondish-brown hair, and her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. “I think we may be finished.”

Oh, God!
Of course, over the years Jackie and Derwin had had their little spats (some of them not really so little), but never had any of them shaken her up like this. “What’s happened?” I forced myself to ask.

“Before I go into that, I think it might be wise for you to try standing up.”

Good idea. But easier said than done. I mean, hoisting myself to my feet was no walk in the park, even with Jackie lending assistance. During this brief but laborious struggle, it crossed my mind that maybe I should enroll in an exercise class one of these days. But once I was settled in my chair again, I concluded that there was no need to overreact. After all, how often did I find myself in that position anyway?

“He’s seeing someone else,” Jackie began, grabbing a handful of skirt fabric and twisting it as she spoke.

“You’re certain of this?”

She nodded.

“How do you know?”

“Last Thursday we met for lunch. I got to the restaurant ten minutes early, but Derwin was already seated at the table when I arrived. He didn’t see me walk in because he was facing the front entrance, and I came in through the side door—I’d taken a shortcut through the bar. Anyhow, I crept up behind him, and I was just about to put my hands over his eyes when I realized he was talking on his cell phone. He—”

“Derwin has a cell phone?” It just popped out. I mean, you have no idea how out of character it is for Adam and Eve’s most tightfisted descendant to spring for something so . . . so
nonessential.

Jackie frowned. But whether her irritation stemmed from my interrupting her narrative or whether she (correctly, I suppose) interpreted my outburst to imply some criticism of Derwin, I wasn’t certain.

“I’m really sorry, Jackie,” I put in hastily. “That kind of surprised me, though. I didn’t realize Derwin was into any of that tech-y stuff.”

“One of his nieces gave him the phone for his birthday,” she informed me brusquely. “But as I started to tell you, I stood there waiting for him to finish the conversation. I heard him say, ‘Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Gale.’ And then this Gale must have made some comment because Derwin said, ‘I’m looking forward to it, too, Gale.’ Evidently the woman threw in a couple of more words, because after that he chuckled—it was that insipid sort of chuckle men use when they’re trying to impress some little chippy.”

I knew exactly what she meant.

“They think it makes them sound sexy. It makes them sound idiotic, if you ask me,” Jackie huffed.

“Have you considered that this Gale could be an old friend?—a platonic friend, I’m talking about.”

“I think Derwin would have mentioned that to me. He probably would have said something like, ‘You’ll never guess who I just spoke to.’ But forget that he
didn’t. Forget his actual words to the woman even. His voice was strange. I don’t know, kind of secretive—I really can’t explain it. Also, the entire time he was on the phone he was staring at that front door—keeping an eye out for me, I’m sure.”

“What was his reaction when you confronted him—or didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t. As soon as he hung up I retraced my steps and went back out through the bar. Then I reentered the restaurant through the front door. The truth is, the thing that was uppermost in my mind that afternoon was concealing from Derwin that I’d overheard the conversation. I was just so afraid of precipitating anything—can you believe it?”

“How did he behave toward you during lunch—any differently?”

“Not really. But that meal was sheer hell for me. I had to act as if there was nothing wrong—either that or have it out with him. Which I wasn’t up to dealing with. I assure you, though, that if it wasn’t for two-and-a-half good-sized glasses of merlot, I never could have managed to keep up the pretense.”

“Listen, Jackie, it’s quite possible you misinterpreted what you heard and that there’s an acceptable explanation for it.”

“I have more to tell you.”

“Oh.” What else could I say? I mean, so far things were not good, and I had no doubt they were about to get worse.

“On Saturday—this past Saturday—Derwin was over at the apartment. We’d made plans to spend the day together earlier in the week, and while I wasn’t looking forward to having him there, I didn’t want to cancel, either. I think I may have been hoping he’d say something about that phone call—something that would convince me I was mistaken in my suspicions. The subject never came up.

“At any rate, around one o’clock I went out to the
store to pick up some groceries. But almost immediately I remembered that I’d left my wallet in my other bag, and, of course, I had to go back for it. Well, Derwin was in the living room when I came in, and apparently he hadn’t heard me, because he was dialing the phone. The instant he saw me he hung up—and turned beet red. If ever guilt was written on a man’s face, Desiree, this was it. Anyhow, he had this piece of paper in his lap, and he quickly shoved it into his wallet.”

There was something in the way Jackie related this last bit of information that led me to believe I had not heard the end of that piece of paper.

“And?” I prompted.

Shifting in her chair, Jackie stopped wringing the bejesus out of her skirt now. “And when Derwin was in the shower that night, I took the paper out of his wallet.” It was obvious I was expected to disapprove of such a sneaky maneuver, since she wasted no time in defending it. “I was so upset by then that I
had
to do it. Don’t you understand?”

“The thing I don’t understand is how you were able to contain yourself all those hours.”

She flashed me a grateful smile. “I copied down what was written on it.” And reaching into her skirt pocket—the one without the tissue supply—Jackie handed me a slip of paper. “Gale,” it said. And right below this was a Manhattan phone number.

“Have you tried the number?” I asked.

“Not yet; I’m afraid to. I want to know what’s going on, but I don’t—if you take my meaning. Do you think I
should
call?”

“I think you should let me see what I can find out.”

Jackie’s face mirrored her relief. “You have no idea how much I wanted you to make that offer. I’d like you to hold off for a while, though, if you don’t mind. I’m not too sure I’m prepared yet for whatever it is you could learn. Okay?”

“Of course. Just say when.”

“I will.” Getting to her feet, Jackie thanked me—ad infinitum—after which she left the office. She must have made it at least halfway down the hall, too. But seconds later I looked up to see her in the doorway.

“When,” she said.

I stared down at the paper in front of me for a long while, reluctant to dial the number that could expose the truth.

Did I really think there might be an explanation for those phone calls of Derwin’s?—other than the obvious one, I mean.

Let’s just say I wasn’t optimistic.

Still, there was a chance—although, granted, a tiny one—that the man
wasn’t
playing house with some floozy. (I regarded anyone with the gall to steal Jackie’s sweetie as an out-and-out floozy.)

At any rate, after frittering away another few minutes, I willed myself to act. I had to get to the bottom of this. No matter what.

My fingers were crossed when I lifted the receiver.

A woman—a mature woman, judging by the voice—answered the telephone and announced that this was Naturally Yours something-or-other. The recitation was so quick that I didn’t catch it all.

“Umm, is Gale there?”

She sounded rather perturbed with this familiarity. “
Dr.
Wright won’t be in until later today.”

How do you like that!
It was a real stretch, attempting to imagine that cheapskate landing himself a doctor. And even if she wasn’t a
doctor
doctor—which I was willing to bet she wasn’t—well, anyway, my poor Jackie.

“When would you suggest I try to reach her?”

“Around three.”

“I’ll—”

“Wait a second. Who did you say you wanted to talk to?”

“Dr. Gale Wright.” This telephone person certainly didn’t have much of an attention span, did she?

“Dr. Wright is a
he.
”

“
Gale
Wright?”

“Listen,” the woman snapped—she managed to bite back the “stupid,” which you could tell took some doing—“didn’t you ever watch that old Lucille Ball series where the boss was played by Gale Gordon? I’m referring to the
actor
Gale Gordon.”

I made the admission timidly. “Uh, yes, now that you mention it, it . . . uh . . . sounds familiar.” Well, this information opened up a second disturbing possibility. Derwin could be bisexual. Or maybe not even bi. Maybe he decided that at this stage of his life it was time he followed his true leanings. My poor,
poor
Jackie!

And then it occurred to me: Perhaps Derwin had been speaking to Dr. Wright on some medical matter. “By the way, what exactly is the name of your company? I want to write it down in my address book.”

“Naturally Yours Hair Replacements,” I was apprised in a tone that gave me frostbite.

I’ll be damned! And also hallelujah!
“There’s something else I—”

“One moment,” the woman said curtly. “I have another call.”

It was obvious this lady regarded me as a very large pain in the lower part of her anatomy. And I was a little suspicious that she might accidentally cut me off—on purpose, of course. I actually felt a little guilty when she got back on the line.

“What more did you want to know, madam?”

“Umm, I don’t suppose my friend Derwin Snyder would happen to be there now.”

“There is no Derwin Snyder employed here.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me. Mr. Snyder is a customer—he’s the one who recommended Dr. Wright to me. The reason I’m asking is that I’ve been trying to contact Mr. Snyder for the past two days, and it’s quite important. I hate to bother you, but I’d really appreciate it if you could check and see if he has an appointment today.”

The telephone person clicked off without a word, and again I had no idea whether she’d hung up or merely put me on hold. But she made a fast return. “Mr. Snyder’s appointment isn’t until later in the week. And just for your information, at Naturally Yours we do not refer to our clients as customers.”

And now there was no doubt what the click signified.

I had to stop myself from running out to Jackie and screaming the wonderful news. But, after all, these
were
professional offices. I settled for buzzing her.

“Jackie?”

“You’ve found out already,” she anticipated, her attitude anything but upbeat.

“Yup. And it’s cause to celebrate!”

“I’ll be there in two seconds.” She was, too. Or pretty close to it, anyhow.

She strode in, beaming. “Tell me,” she demanded, leaning so far across my desk that we were almost rubbing noses.