Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite

Table of Contents

 

 

Raves for Selma Eichler and the Desiree Shapiro
mysteries . . .

 

 

“Highlighting Eichler’s witty dialogue and charming
New York setting are the often hilarious
characters.”—
Publishers Weekly

 

 

“A very realistic character . . . the mystery is
creatively drawn and well plotted.”
—
Painted Rock Reviews

 

 

“A fast-paced, enjoyable read.”—
The Mystery Review

“Another wildly hilarious mystery.”—
The Snooper

 

 

“A poignant and satisfying conclusion . . . the real
pleasure of this book is spending time with Desiree
Shapiro . . . just plain fun to read.”—
I Love a Mystery

 

 

“Highly entertaining . . . witty insights and warm-hearted
humor.”—Joan Hess

 

 

“P.I. Desiree Shapiro has a wonderful New York way
with words and an original knack for solving
homicides. Intriguing and fun.”
—Elizabeth Daniels Squire, author of
Whose Death Is It, Anyway?

Also by Selma Eichler

eISBN : 978-1-101-16573-7

SIGNET

Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

 

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

 

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

First Printing, February 2000

Copyright © Selma Eichler, 2000

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

 

To Puck, whose contributions to this book
went far beyond anything I had a right to expect.

 

I’m very grateful.

I couldn’t
not
thank Major Alan G. Martin of the New York State Police, who once again was so generous in sharing his expertise on law-enforcement matters—in this instance preventing me from making at least a half dozen mistakes.

My thanks, too, to both Stan Madorsky and Julian Scott, whose knowledge in other areas was so helpful to the storyline.

I goofed.

At the time this book was written I was unaware that there actually is a town called Riverton in New Jersey. It is not, however, the Riverton, New Jersey, depicted in this story, which exists only in my imagination.

Yes, I know I’d have spared myself a lot of grief if I hadn’t accepted the case in the first place. Nobody has to tell me that. Even then, I realized I should have avoided it any way that I could. Especially since life was being exceptionally kind to me at the time.

I was doing okay professionally for a change, having just come off two fairly well-paying investigations. Not that I was in a position yet to spring for a comfy little getaway in the Bahamas, you understand. But I could certainly afford to splurge on a good pair of earrings (earrings being a particular weakness of mine). Maybe even with a diamond chip—a very small chip, of course. And without being late with the rent, either. Plus, one of those two recent clients of mine had even said something about recommending my services to a friend of his, a biggie with an insurance company. Which, whether he followed through or not, was making me feel pretty upbeat about the future—for the moment, at any rate.

Things were even going well on a personal level. Okay, so maybe Al Bonaventure wasn’t exactly my type—physically, I’m talking about. But it didn’t seem to matter that much lately. I liked to think of this as a sign that, after all these years, I was finally maturing. I mean, Al has an awful lot going for him. He’s a genuinely caring person, with a very good mind and a terrific sense of humor. Plus he’s attentive; the man actually
listens
when you talk. (And how many people of either gender can you say that about?) And just so you don’t get the wrong idea, he’s also far from unattractive—a great, big teddy bear of a man most women would find pretty appealing. Those, that is, fortunate enough not to have my inexplicable penchant for skinny, needy-looking men. You know, the kind who give the impression that what they require most in this world is a little TLC and a good home-cooked meal. Anyway, at last I seemed able to get beyond this nurturing thing of mine and appreciate the many admirable qualities Al had to offer. So as you can see, it wasn’t as if I was that anxious to pad my bank account or fill up my dull, drab days. The fact is, I was feeling better about the status quo than I had in I-can’t-remember-when. Then why, you might ask, would I want to rock the boat and get involved in an investigation like this one?

I’ll be honest with you. I wound up in this mess for two reasons: (a) I was going to be very generously compensated, and (b)—and far, far more important—I am the closest thing to a chicken you’ll find outside a henhouse.

But look, would you have had the nerve to turn down Vito da Silva?

My first thought when he came to see me that day was that there was a certain elegance about the man. Around fifty or so, Vito da Silva was medium-tall and fairly slender, with a thin face, a longish, aristocratic nose, and a full head of dark brown hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples. Later on in our meeting, during those infrequent moments when he deigned to smile, I saw that he even boasted a nice set of large, very white teeth. On this unusually warm, mid-November afternoon he was coatless, dressed in a beautifully tailored navy suit and crisp white shirt with a navy and red paisley tie.

Believe it or not, initially I had no idea who he was. His name hadn’t rung a bell when he gave it to me on the phone that morning. Probably because notorious mob bosses don’t normally play much of a part in my life. Or
any
part, actually. Then, too, da Silva wasn’t in the news all that often. For someone in his profession (if you want to call it that), he managed to keep a fairly low profile. Still, his face did look familiar. I just didn’t instantly recognize it as the one that stared back at me from the television screen every once in a while. He didn’t give me time to make the connection, either.

“You are Mrs. Shapiro?” There was no disbelief in his voice when he asked the question. He seemed simply to be seeking confirmation. And he didn’t lift an eyebrow or drop his jaw when I answered in the affirmative, either. Which instantly earned him a couple of points with me.

You know, I just can’t understand why a private investigator’s never growing past five-two should be cause for astonishment. Even if said short person has a head of glorious hennaed hair, besides, and weighs a smidge or two more than those leggy, anorexic females you see portraying PIs on TV. But anyhow, it’s rare when establishing my line of work doesn’t get me one of those “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding” looks. It’s also refreshing.

“I am Vito da Silva,” the man informed me, holding out his hand. I stood up and extended my own.

After the amenities, da Silva took a seat next to my desk—the only one available in the pathetically tiny cubbyhole I call an office. Crossing his legs, he rested both hands on his right thigh. I observed appreciatively that his black tasseled shoes had been buffed to a mirror shine. (I have a tendency to notice shoes. I guess that’s understandable, though, being that I’m built so close to the ground.)