“She looked at us like we were crazy for even putting the question to her. ‘How would I know?’ she answered. ‘Go talk to that rich, hoity-toity wife of his.’ ”
Now, I could always meet with the receptionist later on, if it came to that. So in the interests of our recently established—and tenuous—harmony, I told Lou I’d pass on Ms. Taylor, too.
He seemed pleased with my decision.
“Listen, there’s something else I wanted to check out with you, too,” I said.
“Sure.”
“Heard anything on the fingerprints yet—the ones in the Camry?”
“Yeah. And the bottom line is, forget it,” he grumbled. “Just like I figured.”
“Oh, and I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the murder weapon. I assume you haven’t had any luck there, either?”
“A hundred percent correct. So far the damn thing hasn’t turned up. All I can tell you at this point is that according to the ballistics report, Vincent was killed with a 9-millimeter semiautomatic.
“Incidentally, I placed a couple of calls to Paris this morning, at one-thirty to be specific. I had trouble sleeping—too much Italian food, probably, along with a little too much thinking—and making those phone calls beat having to watch what was on TV. Anyhow, it was seven-thirty a.m. over there, and I talked to that Chinese lady, Claire Wu. She confirmed driving out to the Loire Valley with the widow. She was with her from Tuesday morning until Thursday night, she told me. I wasn’t able to reach the second woman, but we can give it another shot later. If we try around noon, we may catch her when she comes home from work—assuming she has regular hours, of course.”
“Why bother? The alibi appears to hold up. But then, I expected it would, didn’t you? I mean, Sheila Vincent wouldn’t have mentioned being with friends unless she was certain of what they’d be telling us.” I sighed. “So if Mrs. Vincent was involved in her husband’s death, she had somebody else do her dirty work for her. The question is—”
Lou held up his hand to end the speculation—which, I suppose, is borderline more polite than if he’d verbally shut me up. “I want to remind you,” he said quietly, “of the word you just used.”
“What word?”
“ If. You said if she had anything to do with his death. That if is something you’re going to have to keep in mind, you know. We’re even checking out a second theory now, or have you forgotten why we’re headed for the Vincent place this very minute?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. And you’re absolutely right. It’s important to be open to other possibilities.” But the next instant I returned to my speculations—this time keeping them to myself. Who had the widow enlisted to pull that trigger for her, anyway?
If she was responsible for her husband’s murder, that is.
Chapter 16
We sat in that damn car for over a half hour—my buns getting more numb with every passing second—and Sheila Vincent still didn’t show her face. Or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.
I made what I considered to be a very practical suggestion. “Why don’t we try Doris Shippman first, then?”
“Okay,” Lou agreed—my hand was on the door handle—“if Mrs. Vincent doesn’t get back in another five minutes.”
We waited that other five minutes. And after this, five more. No widow Vincent. Finally Lou had also had enough. (Maybe his buns were beginning to act up on him, too.) So we scribbled a message that said we’d be back in about an hour, put the time on it, and slipped it under Sheila’s front door.
Then we headed for the red brick house diagonally across the street.
“But you can’t believe Sheila had anything to do with Frank’s murder!”
Lou and I had been questioning Doris Shippman in her spacious, cheerfully furnished living room for a short while. And having just been advised that she had no idea who might have wanted the victim dead, we’d moved on to the topic of
Now, I could always meet with the receptionist later on, if it came to that. So in the interests of our recently established—and tenuous—harmony, I told Lou I’d pass on Ms. Taylor, too.
He seemed pleased with my decision.
“Listen, there’s something else I wanted to check out with you, too,” I said.
“Sure.”
“Heard anything on the fingerprints yet—the ones in the Camry?”
“Yeah. And the bottom line is, forget it,” he grumbled. “Just like I figured.”
“Oh, and I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the murder weapon. I assume you haven’t had any luck there, either?”
“A hundred percent correct. So far the damn thing hasn’t turned up. All I can tell you at this point is that according to the ballistics report, Vincent was killed with a 9-millimeter semiautomatic.
“Incidentally, I placed a couple of calls to Paris this morning, at one-thirty to be specific. I had trouble sleeping—too much Italian food, probably, along with a little too much thinking—and making those phone calls beat having to watch what was on TV. Anyhow, it was seven-thirty a.m. over there, and I talked to that Chinese lady, Claire Wu. She confirmed driving out to the Loire Valley with the widow. She was with her from Tuesday morning until Thursday night, she told me. I wasn’t able to reach the second woman, but we can give it another shot later. If we try around noon, we may catch her when she comes home from work—assuming she has regular hours, of course.”
“Why bother? The alibi appears to hold up. But then, I expected it would, didn’t you? I mean, Sheila Vincent wouldn’t have mentioned being with friends unless she was certain of what they’d be telling us.” I sighed. “So if Mrs. Vincent was involved in her husband’s death, she had somebody else do her dirty work for her. The question is—”
Lou held up his hand to end the speculation—which, I suppose, is borderline more polite than if he’d verbally shut me up. “I want to remind you,” he said quietly, “of the word you just used.”
“What word?”
“ If. You said if she had anything to do with his death. That if is something you’re going to have to keep in mind, you know. We’re even checking out a second theory now, or have you forgotten why we’re headed for the Vincent place this very minute?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. And you’re absolutely right. It’s important to be open to other possibilities.” But the next instant I returned to my speculations—this time keeping them to myself. Who had the widow enlisted to pull that trigger for her, anyway?
If she was responsible for her husband’s murder, that is.
Chapter 16
We sat in that damn car for over a half hour—my buns getting more numb with every passing second—and Sheila Vincent still didn’t show her face. Or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.
I made what I considered to be a very practical suggestion. “Why don’t we try Doris Shippman first, then?”
“Okay,” Lou agreed—my hand was on the door handle—“if Mrs. Vincent doesn’t get back in another five minutes.”
We waited that other five minutes. And after this, five more. No widow Vincent. Finally Lou had also had enough. (Maybe his buns were beginning to act up on him, too.) So we scribbled a message that said we’d be back in about an hour, put the time on it, and slipped it under Sheila’s front door.
Then we headed for the red brick house diagonally across the street.
“But you can’t believe Sheila had anything to do with Frank’s murder!”
Lou and I had been questioning Doris Shippman in her spacious, cheerfully furnished living room for a short while. And having just been advised that she had no idea who might have wanted the victim dead, we’d moved on to the topic of
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