Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (16 page)

“I’ll be ready.”

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

 

It had begun to rain fairly heavily again about five minutes after we started for the cemetery. And while driving wasn’t nearly as hazardous as it had been earlier, it was still something of a challenge.

“I don’t know why we’re doing this,” Lou complained. “It’ll take us about an hour to get to the place—assuming, of course, that we don’t get lost. Which happens to be a distinct possibility, since I’m not even sure how to go. And the odds are a million to one that we’ll learn anything, anyway.”

“I can’t argue with that. It’s just that I’d feel remiss if I didn’t check it out and see who puts in an appearance.” And here I added sheepishly, “Umm, I really appreciate this, Lou. Honestly. Especially because I know it’s against your better judgment.”

“Believe it,” he muttered. “Hey, is your client going to be there?”

“I have no idea.”

“He’d almost have to be, wouldn’t he, if he cared enough about Vincent to hire you?” Lou prodded.

I hunched my shoulders. Then I realized Lou was focused on the road, so I provided a verbal response. “It’s conceivable.”

“Well, I’ll have my antennas out for him.”

I offered a gentle reminder: “Or her.”

“Nah. It’s a him.”

“A million to one odds again?” I teased.

Lou just smiled, and after this we rode in silence for a while. Then, out of nowhere, he hit me with the one question I hoped he’d never ask: “Hey, your client wouldn’t be Vito da Silva, by any chance?”

For an instant I couldn’t breathe. And it was fortunate Lou was looking straight ahead of him, because I was certain my face must match my hair color. Somehow, though, I brazened it out. “Oh, absolutely. After all, isn’t it only natural that a guy like that—who I assume can afford to employ the biggest, most successful PI firms in the country—would choose some little one-person agency that nobody ever heard of? An agency, I should add, that doesn’t even have much of a track record.” I managed a guffaw. “Come on. Make some sense, will you, Lou?”

“Da Silva
did
take a great deal of interest in the deceased. You can’t deny that,” Lou retorted. “And something tells me he has the clout to get the Riverton Police Department to cooperate with you like this.”

“That might very well be true,” I conceded. And then with feigned reluctance: “Look, I probably shouldn’t even be saying this, but maybe my client
is
someone with a lot of clout. On the other hand, maybe he—or she—is someone who’s just very tight with a person who has the sort of clout you’re referring to.”

And now, while he was still attempting to absorb this small “hint,” I was ready with the
coup de grâce
. Sounding deeply offended—I even injected a tear into my voice (which I was able to pull off very nicely, thanks to those four years in my high school drama club)—I murmured, “I’ve got to tell you, though, Lou, that it hurts you can so much as
suggest
that I’d work for a man like da Silva.”

“I’m very sorry, Desiree,” an abashed Lou responded. “I wasn’t thinking. Sometimes my mouth is way ahead of my brain.”

I was, of course, all generosity and forgiveness. “It’s okay.” I gave him a plucky little smile. “Let’s just forget it.”

He took me at my word. “So now that we’ve established it wasn’t da Silva, who was it, then? You’ll feel better if you unburden yourself,” he joked. “Trust me.”

“Forget it, bub. Besides, didn’t you assure me you could find out on your own?”

“Uh-huh. And I will,” he asserted, grinning. “I was just trying to take a shortcut.”

As soon as we left the car, the downpour, driven by a biting wind now, seemed to double in intensity.

Lou fought valiantly, and in vain, with an umbrella that was determined to turn itself inside out. We hurried toward the canopy that shielded the rather small group of mourners, the rain relentlessly pounding Lou’s head and rolling straight down my hair, finally coming to rest inside the upturned collar of my trench coat. When we reached the protection of the overhang, we shook ourselves like sheep dogs. For a moment there, I was even tempted to remove my wig—which I almost invariably press into service in nasty weather and which is an exact replica of my own, less adaptable hennaed tresses. I mean, I’d have liked to be able to give that thing the kind of shaking it required. But the cemetery, I reminded myself, was hardly an appropriate venue for wig rehabilitation.

An earnest young priest had already begun the brief service. Which was perfectly okay with me, since it was really painful to hear someone with the dubious character of the deceased being all but canonized.

We found a space off to the side, way up front. Standing here, I had a pretty good view of Frank Vincent’s relatives, neighbors, friends, and, very possibly, enemies.

One thing surprised me. I had expected Frank Vincent’s funeral to be jammed with politicians. But judging from the size of the turnout, there were few, if any, here today. I concluded that apparently Frank wasn’t well-known enough for any photographers to cover his funeral, so why would those political types bother to show?

I spotted Sheila Vincent practically at once. And I swear that her expression was positively tranquil. The woman didn’t even have the good grace to
look
like she minded planting her husband.

There was an older couple flanking Sheila, almost certainly her parents. I had the impression the man wasn’t too steady on his feet, and he had a sickly pallor. Sheila, clutching his arm, appeared to be supporting him on one side, while another attractive blonde was bolstering him on the other side. This second blonde bore a strong resemblance to the widow, but she was a bit shorter and her face was rounder and slightly puffy, the features less delicately drawn. She was, I decided, not nearly as striking as Sheila. She seemed, too, to lack the other’s presence, her flair.
Must be the “bereaved’s” sister,
I thought spitefully.

I glanced quickly at the people around me. Then I whispered to Lou over the priest’s stirring tones, “I wonder which one is Ron Whitfield.”

“Shhh,” he responded, a finger to his lips.

“He’s Sheila’s ex-fiancé,” I reminded him.

“Shhh,” he repeated. “I know.” But a moment later he jabbed me in the ribs. A latecomer was making his way toward the group. “Vito da Silva,” he informed me in a barely audible voice. We both watched as da Silva approached a large, heavy-set man who stood alone, at the rear of the assemblage. “And that’s—”

“Joe Maltese,” I supplied.

At this juncture the shushing came from somewhere in back of me. I turned to glare at whoever it was—you can’t imagine how quietly I’d spoken—but no one was even looking in my direction.
Coward!

I returned to examining the crowd.

As expected, Doris Shippman was here, a tall, fair man to her left. Even though the two weren’t exactly side-by-side—actually, a large shopping cart could have fitted easily into the space between them—I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if this was
Mr.
Shippman. Not in view of what I’d gleaned about the shape of the Shippman marriage.

A moment later I noticed Morgan Sklaar, Sheila’s handsome publisher, whose impressive head of silver hair was now completely hidden under a sodden rain hat.

Marilyn Vincent had come, of course. She caught my eye and smiled fleetingly in recognition. Off to her right was a painfully thin, frail-looking old gentleman in a wheelchair, a tearful middle-aged couple leaning over him from behind. The woman had one hand resting on his shoulder, the other hand dabbing at her eyes. The dazed expression on the octogenarian’s tiny, prunelike face signified he was still in shock.

I inched closer to Lou. “Must be Uncle Gino, Frank’s father,” I murmured, pointing in the old man’s general direction with a toss of my head.

Lou scowled at me.

Well, if he wasn’t interested in learning what was what around here, see if I cared. As for me, I’d continue to check out the mourners.

Many of the neighbors had showed up—the women, at any rate. The only men I spotted from Oakview Drive, though—aside from the could-be-Andrew-Shippman—were Robert Kovacs, Ed Conti, and Marcus Goodman. The others, I assumed, were at work. Which caused me to have some second thoughts as to whether the man standing in Doris Shippman’s general vicinity was her husband after all. I mean, considering how busy Shippman had insisted he was, how could he have managed to tear himself away from his desk?

And now I resumed the search for Ron Whitfield. “Maybe Whitfield’s that fellow over there with the glasses. Or he could be the man
next
to the man on Marilyn Vincent’s left.” I said this to Lou in a voice so low that I could barely hear me myself. “Hey, how about that good-looking hunk right in front of the Contis?”

This time I was treated to two shushes, one from Lou and one from the invisible man—or woman—behind me.

It had been a very long, very hectic part-week. Plus, while expected, the fact that I hadn’t learned a single damn thing by going to that funeral nevertheless had me feeling pretty let down. It would have been an ideal day to go home early and recharge. But Lou and I had one of the last of the Vincents’ neighbors to question. And this guy didn’t exactly make himself readily available to us.

 

The instant Andrew Shippman opened the door, I recognized him as the man I’d speculated
could be
Andrew Shippman at the funeral. We followed him into the den, which was toward the rear of the house. On our way back there, I kept looking around, expecting to see his wife. But she was nowhere in sight.

“Sit down,” Shippman instructed with a smile. He was a lot more amiable than our previous conversation had led me to expect.

Lou and I promptly took possession of the sofa, while Shippman remained standing, towering over us.

He was a giant of a man, six-three at least, with shoulders that made my Al’s look positively puny. His hair was light—almost blond—and he had the bluest eyes, plus teeth that practically
shone
. And even if his forehead was higher than he probably appreciated and he sported a bit of flab around the middle and his backside was kind of broad for the rest of him, he was still a very imposing figure.

“I saw you at the cemetery today,” I stated, having to look so far up I got neck strain.

“My wife insisted that it was only neighborly I attend. Of course, I’ll probably have to put in extra hours at work all week—and I stay late enough as it is. But anything to get the wife off my case.”

I hoped my face didn’t mirror my irritation. (I really hate the expression “the wife,” don’t you? I mean, it’s only one step above “the little woman,” as far as I’m concerned.)

“I didn’t see
you
at the service, though,” Shippman said with a flash of teeth. “I would have remembered if I had.”

The implied compliment was such a cliché and so patently insincere that it almost made me gag.

“May I get the two of you something to drink?” he offered.

Lou and I politely declined, and Shippman settled himself in this wide, maroon-colored recliner, stretching out legs that went on ad infinitum. “What can I do for you, Detectives?”

Lou kicked off with, “We’d appreciate anything you could tell us about Frank Vincent. How well did you know him?”

“Not well at all. Listen, I recently opened my own business, and you can probably understand the sort of commitment that requires. It certainly doesn’t leave much time for socializing. The only thing I can say is that Frank seemed to me to be an okay guy—from the limited contact I had with him.”

“But Mrs. Shippman and Mrs. Vincent are such good friends,” Lou persisted. “The four of you never went out together on weekends?”

“Very infrequently. I often go into the office on Saturdays and Sundays. And that was true even before I started the new firm.” He bestowed on us what was intended to be an ingratiating smile. “I presume I’m what could be termed a workaholic.”

“All right. How did the Vincents get along on those rare occasions when you
were
with them?” Lou demanded, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Fine, as far as I could tell.”

“Are you aware that he beat up on her?” I put in.

Shippman seemed genuinely surprised. “You’re kidding! I never in a million years would have figured Frank for something like that.”

Once again my thoughts on the Shippman marriage appeared to have been confirmed. “Your wife didn’t say anything to you about this?” It was actually a rhetorical question.

Nevertheless, Shippman answered it. “Evidently not.” He bit off the words.

Lou changed the subject. “Are you aware of anyone—a neighbor, for instance—who might have had a grudge against the victim?”

“From what little I know, everyone seemed to like him.”

“And her?” I asked. “Did everyone seem to like her?”

“Sheila? She appeared to be . . . ahh . . .
appreciated,
at any rate.” Shippman grinned. It was a grin that I felt bore a definite resemblance to a leer. But I had to admit this might only be my imagination.

“Do you think someone might have more than just
liked
Mrs. Vincent?”

“I wouldn’t have a clue, Detective Shapiro. My wife’s the one to talk to about that sort of stuff. She’s not at home tonight, though.” And then: “I hear the police now believe the murder was premeditated.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re sure?”

I explained about Charlie Ross and the car. “Apparently the killer was sitting there for at least two hours, waiting for Mr. Vincent to come out of his building.”

“Good Lord.”

“Uh, I wonder if you’d mind telling us where you were between six and eight that evening.” It seemed to be as appropriate a time as any to bring this up.