Free Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite by Selma Eichler Page A

about the widow Vincent.
    Had I been even a little bit fair to the woman?
    Granted, she had this—well, call it a presence —that made me feel as though my pantyhose were drooping and my roots were showing and my beige suit wasn’t even fit to be buried in the backyard. But this was my problem. Sheila Vincent hadn’t said or done a thing to generate this insecurity in me. And even if she had, that wouldn’t justify my readiness to paint a blood-red “M”—for murderer—on her forehead.
    After all, she was honest enough to admit—and without even the slightest bit of prodding, too—that she’d been planning to unload the guy. And why would she have to resort to murder, anyway? Apparently, there wasn’t any financial consideration to dissuade her from terminating the marriage legally—exactly as she claimed she’d been intending to do. Remember, she was the one who came from all that money.
    Still, my intuition told me . . .
    No, I could forget my stupid intuition. It was about as trustworthy as my glorious hennaed hair. (Which tonight, thanks to the most infinitesimal amount of humidity in the air, insisted on going its own way, leaving me looking positively bizarre.)
    But an instant later I changed my tune again.
    The thing is, when had the mere fact that a woman was good looking and stylish induced me to suspect her of a crime? Never, that’s when. So I couldn’t see myself just dismissing this . . . this uneasiness I had about Sheila.
    Okay, so maybe there wasn’t even one sensible reason for my doubts about the lady. But for the time being, I’d be keeping a very watchful eye on her, regardless.
     
    At around eight-thirty I dropped off the car at the garage near my apartment. And it was only then that I realized how thoroughly exhausted I was. I’d have loved to go straight home and plop down on the sofa for a couple of years. But I was also starved. And at the prospect of dining on any of the pitiful scraps in my refrigerator (pre that visit from da Silva, I’d planned on doing my grocery shopping this morning), I was willing to postpone that rendezvous with the sofa.
    I headed for Jerome’s, this little coffee shop in my neighborhood. The minute I set foot in the door, I spotted Felix, which severely restricted my menu choices. You see, Felix, who must be well into his seventies, is a waiter who takes great pride in his memory. So invariably, as soon as he approaches my table, he holds up his hand. “Wait,” he commands, “don’t tell me.” And he plays back the first order I ever gave him. “The cheeseburger deluxe, you want. Well done. And the fries, they should also be well done. And you’ll have a Coke, but I gotta bring the beverage together with the food—not before.” Then he’s likely to beam at me. “So, am I right?”
    “You got it,” I say.
    It seems I just never have the heart to contradict him. Tonight I even gave myself permission to forget that this is what I’d had for lunch. Which you couldn’t really call a sacrifice, considering my affection for cheeseburgers. Plus, it wasn’t as if I’d had the slightest intention of ordering the bluefish or the grilled vegetable platter or any of those similarly boring, good-for-you foods. Besides, I did manage to vary the meal a bit from the one I’d consumed earlier. I ordered a slice of coconut cream pie for dessert.
     
    When I walked into my apartment I found three messages on the answering machine.
    The first was from Ellen. “Hi, Aunt Dez. I wanted to know how it went today. Give me a ring when you get in.”
    Damn!
    The second was from Jackie. The two calls might have been identical, except that Jackie added, “I’ll be waiting for your call.” She made it sound like a threat.
    Oh, shit!
    Last was a message from Al. “I was hoping you’d be home by now. I’m really anxious to hear what kind of a day you had. It’s just after six Las Vegas time, and I’ll be going out in about five minutes to meet an old college