Free Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite by Selma Eichler Page B

buddy of mine for drinks and then dinner. We have a lot of catching up to do, so it’ll most likely be too late to phone you when I get back to the room—even a night owl like you will probably be asleep by then. I’ll try you tomorrow. If I can’t get in touch with you, though, maybe you’ll have better luck reaching me.” And speaking quickly now to avoid my machine’s rudely terminating him as it had so many times in the past, he rattled off his phone number, along with his schedule for the next couple of days.
    After this there was an abrupt change in his tone of voice. “Uh, Dez?” he said tentatively. “I just want you to know I’m thinking about you.” And then he hung up.
    I felt a rush of warmth. How lucky I was that someone like Al Bonaventure cared for me!
    Well, tired or not, I’d better return those calls. So grousing under my breath, I picked up the receiver. I really needed this now, right?
     
    “So?” Ellen demanded. “How did it go?”
    I kept the information brief and factual, telling her that I’d talked to an eyewitness to the shooting and then with the victim’s widow and cousin.
    “How do you like working out of that police station? Are they nice?”
    I refrained from confiding that my temporary partner considered my presence there as welcome as the ebola virus. And that, if anything, it was even less welcome to the Riverton police chief. Instead, I said, “Well, they’ve assigned this one man to team up with me—a lieutenant—and he’s been pretty helpful.”
    “Is he cute?”
    “Who?”
    “This lieutenant, of course,” Ellen responded impatiently.
    “No. But he appears to be a good cop, which is a lot more important. Look, Ellen, I’m really pooped now. Besides, I’d better make myself some supper. I’m famished.”
    “You haven’t eaten yet? Oh, Aunt Dez, I wish you’d start taking care of yourself.” She sounded just concerned enough so that I felt guilty about the lie. “Go fix something this minute.”
    “Okay, I—”
    “Before you hang up, though, I have one quick question: What are you doing tomorrow?”
    “I’ll be driving over to New Jersey again. There are quite a few people I should talk to, and I don’t want to let a lot of time elapse. What did you have in mind, anyway?”
    “Well, last week Mike and I went bowling, and it was so much fun that I’m dying to do it again. He has to work all weekend, though”—Ellen’s almost-fiancé is a resident at St. Gregory’s Hospital—“so I thought maybe you’d like to come with me.”
    She had to be kidding! I don’t suppose I have to tell you that it wasn’t by chance that I hadn’t been bowling in years. I mean, bowling is like exercise, for heaven’s sake. And I can’t help it; I blanch at the very thought of straining my limbs like that. “Gee,” I responded with total insincerity, “I’m really sorry I can’t make it, Ellen. Maybe some other time.” Yeah. When garbage cans sprout wings.
     
    It’s likely that Derwin—her significant other—was at Jackie’s apartment when I got back to her, because Puccini was playing in the background, and Derwin just loves Puccini. Plus I was almost certain I heard a cough—a male- type cough—at one point. Also, Jackie refrained from following my sketchy account of today’s doings with her usual ten million questions. And to clinch it all, she didn’t venture a single unsolicited opinion—not about anything. So who knows what I interrupted. But whatever it was had my gratitude. The important thing was that tonight’s call may have set a brevity record for a Jackie telephone conversation.
     
    It was a little after eleven-thirty when I crawled into bed, completely spent. But I couldn’t fall asleep. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to my second day in Riverton—and the prospect of dealing with a man who was so put out about having to work with me.
    It’s possible, though, I tried convincing myself, that you’ll be able to win him