Gunned: An Alex Harris Mystery Page 13

  “I take it Hunter called you,” I said, as I fell in step with Christine and Norman.

  “He did.”

  “Then you know why I’m here. Why did you lie?”

  “Because if you knew that Mr. Spiegel came back and that he and Hunter had words, well, I didn’t want you running to the cops, whom, by the way, I’ve already spoken to this morning, so now they know everything, too. If any of this gets back to Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth it will probably be the end of my engagement. They’re already aghast at the prospect of their son marrying the daughter of blue color workers.” Christine yanked on Norman’s leash bringing him back from his snooping into a recently planted flower bed in front of a house at the corner.

  “Do they really care about such things?” I had heard it all from Hunter less than an hour ago, but I just couldn’t fathom that in this day and age, people still held with such narrow-minded views.

  Christine stopped and looked at me with an expression I can only describe as contempt. “Hell yes! They’ve been trying to break us up pretty much since they first met me. They think Hunter is much too good for me.”

  I had to wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth knew about their son’s brush with the law, which according to Shirley, didn’t seem to go anywhere. Either the parents had the complaint squashed or Hunter’s friend relented and dropped the charges.

  “So the second time Mr. Spiegel showed up, Hunter had a few words with him and he left?”

  “Exactly. Hunter told him to knock it off and stay away. And that was it. He left and I never heard from him again.”

  Of course, Hunter had called Christine the second I left his office so they had time to get their story straight. Or maybe it was the truth. I guess I could knock on doors and find out if any of the neighbors heard any heated arguments that ended with a shot to the head, but I figured the police would get around to doing that.

  “Christine, do you own a gun?”

  “No.”

  I would have believed her if there hadn’t been an almost imperceptible hesitation to her answer, which made me think that was one thing she didn’t admit to the police. And if I was a betting sort of a girl, I would venture a guess that the gun she did have was given to her by none other than Hunter. Much as I hated giving my husband information without the prospect of getting any in return, I would be letting John know about the possibility of a gun as soon as I left her.

  I walked with her a bit longer, but could tell I wouldn’t get any more information out of her. To my surprise I found myself in front of my car.

  “Well, this is me. Thanks for talking to me again,” I said with my most engaging smile and a firm handshake. I wanted to make sure I left her with the impression that her lie about the gun was believed and that our dealings together were over, because the last thing I wanted her to do next was to run home and toss the gun out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I headed back to the campaign headquarters, but it was still too early to catch Martha Aiello. I found a diner and pulled into their tiny lot. I hadn’t eaten since the salami at Meme’s and I needed something in my stomach before I took some pain medication.

  I sat at a tiny booth by the window and took out my cell phone. I didn’t relish the thought of talking to my husband and having him lecture me, which we both knew would do no good but as a police detective he felt compelled to do, but still, I was obligated to let him know that Christine warranted another visit.

  Luck was on my side and I got his voice mail. I left a message about the possibility of the woman having a gun, and then I turned the phone off. I didn’t want him returning my call. If he was going to be mad, better it be at home tonight with our guests as witnesses.

  A young, preppy-looking woman took my order and then returned with a small pot of tea. I took my iPad from my purse and opened an app where I could write down my thoughts. I sat there looking out the window, watching students and people in business suits rush by.

  A few hours ago I felt I had a good suspect in Andrea. Not only was she upset with her father, so much so that she wouldn’t even talk with him anymore, but then I found out that she was to inherit land and other assets. It wasn’t that I thought she currently needed any of these things, but more that I felt she didn’t want to share. If it turned out that Sheldon Spiegel found his biological daughter, wouldn’t it also stand that he found his rightful heir? And by finding another daughter, would that negate all of Andrea’s claims, or would she have to split the inheritance with an interloper? Andrea had been an only child all her life, and while she didn’t strike me as especially spoiled, I had a feeling she wouldn’t be good at dividing the goods with a stranger.

  My problem was, now I had another viable suspect—two, actually—in Christine Jamison and Hunter Wentworth. It was just like I told Annie; you can’t get caught up in your suspects. I initially thought of Christine as an intelligent young woman with a very cute dog. Now I saw her as an intelligent young woman with a gun and a future to protect. My suspicions of Hunter were less. Sure, he didn’t want his parents to find out about the possibility of Christine being Jewish, but really? Was that anything to kill over? Then I had another thought. Maybe they did it together? Maybe Christine called Hunter on Tuesday and then they lured Mr. Spiegel back with the promise of taking a DNA test. Once he arrived back at the apartment they killed him together, piled him into either Christine’s or Hunter’s car, and then dumped the body at the beach. Or maybe they asked him to meet them someplace else. I liked this scenario better. Less to clean up at home and no interruptions from pesky neighbors wondering what all the noise was about. Gun shots did tend to get people’s attention.

  Maybe I should call John back and ask him to trace any calls made by Christine? No one had mentioned Sheldon Spiegel giving them a contact number, but the man must have in case any of the women he called on decided to have a DNA test.

  I took out my phone again and pulled the business card for Le Petit Bonbon from my wallet. I punched in the number and Mandy Aiello answered the phone. I confirmed with her that she had received a phone number, not a card, but Mr. Spiegel had given her his number in case she wanted to talk further. I thanked her and hung up. Perfect. So it was conceivable that Christine Jamison had also been given his phone number.

  The waitress placed a bowl of vegetable soup in front of me with a basket of warm cornbread and left me to enjoy my lunch. While I waited for the soup to cool, I jotted down a few more notes. I also tried to formulate my approach to Martha Aiello. She presented a formidable presence on TV, and I didn’t see any reason why she wouldn’t be just as scary in person. And besides, even her daughter found her an intimidating force.

  I returned to my meal and in no time had finished the soup and two pieces of bread. I paid my check, left a generous tip, and headed back to the office where hopefully Mrs. Aiello would now be sitting behind her desk.

  The campaign headquarters was not as busy as it had been earlier. There were only two people working the phones. Maybe the others were at lunch. In the back was an office with an open door. I could see that a light was on, but couldn’t tell if anyone was in there.

  “Can I help you with something?” a young man in a white shirt and navy blue tie asked me.

  “Yes, I’d like to speak with Martha Aiello. It’s a personal matter.”

  He looked unsure as to what to do, and I got the impression Martha didn’t like being interrupted.

  “It’s about her daughter if that would help?”

  The young man sighed. “Probably not, but I’ll tell her you’re here anyway. She’s got an appointment in half an hour, so I’m not sure she’ll see you. And your name?”

  I gave him my name and a moment later he came back and told me I could go on through.

  Martha Aiello sat behind a desk, her red hair perfectly coiffed and chunky gold jewelry expertly accenting her green power suit. She looked up as I came in, but didn’t stand and didn’t introduce herself.

  “What has my dau
ghter done now?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know, accept make some of the best chocolate I’ve ever tasted. And her macarons are to die for. I imagine she helps you out a lot with catering your various events,” I said by way of a dig. “Her heavenly concoctions must be a major draw with your constituents.” Maybe I could drum up some business for the young entrepreneur.

  Mrs. Aiello let the praise for her daughter’s business go unnoticed. “So why are you here, Ms.?”

  “Harris. Alex Harris.” She didn’t offer me a seat, but I took one anyway. “I met her on Saturday at her delightful shop. I’m looking into Mr. Sheldon Spiegel’s death.”

  It was the first time Martha Aiello’s perfectly poised, more than likely botoxed face, lost its composure.

  “Are you with the police?”

  “No. Not exactly.” I told her the story of how Mr. Spiegel had shown up at my office, and how Millie was one of the women he thought might be his daughter. I explained to Mrs. Aiello how upsetting it all was for Millie and that I was trying to get to the bottom of things for her.

  “I know Mr. Spiegel talked with your daughter, and I was wondering if he spoke with you as well?”

  Martha tapped a perfectly lacquered red nail on the desk. I figured I was about to be asked to leave, but instead she started talking.

  “As a matter of fact he did. He caught me here at my office on, let’s see, it must have been last Monday. I was heading off to a meeting and didn’t have a lot of time for him, but I made it perfectly clear that he was totally mistaken. Mandy is my daughter. Has anyone ever told you that you’d look much better with a proper hair cut? I could recommend someone if you’d like.”

  What? I was momentarily taken off guard by her comment. I self-consciously touched my hair. It was the bane of my existence. It was thin and fine, and it caused me great anxiety on more than one occasion, but in the last couple of years, with a haircut I thought was becoming and the addition of some highlights, my hair and I had come to terms with each other.

  “And your eyebrows could use a bit of filling in. You might want to consider accessorizing your wardrobe a bit as well. Some well-placed pieces would do your look a world of good.”

  I was trying to think of a comeback when the phone buzzed. Mrs. Aiello picked up the phone and told them she would call them back in a few minutes.

  “Well, thanks for the advice,” I muttered. “So you’re sure there’s no basis for Mr. Spiegel’s suspicions?”

  “Of course not. The man was obviously having problems with his daughter. I can sympathize with him on that account. Daughters are, well, daunting. Or maybe he was having a mid-life crisis. Who knows. He looked to be about that age when men go crazy. A softer highlight, maybe more of a red tone, would be more becoming with your skin color than the blond you have now. And I think you need to adjust your makeup base. The color’s not blending well.”

  The young man I had met in the lobby came in before I could get my own dig in.

  “Martha, the governor is on line one.”

  “I must take this,” she said to me. “I think I made myself clear. Mandy is not to be bothered by such foolishness again.” She picked up the phone, dismissing me.

  I left Martha Aiello thinking two things. The first was that I was obviously a fashion nightmare too hideous to be seen in public, and the second was that I had just been sent down the garden path by her masterful misdirection.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  So, was the woman simply the most tactless, rude person I had ever met, or was she using my lack of fashion sense to throw me off her scent? And what was wrong with my fashion sense? I’ve been told on many occasions that I look nice. I usually wear pencil skirts with low black pumps. I jazz things up a bit with scarves and earrings, and I always thought I looked nice in a New England conservative kind of way. What’s wrong with plaid skirts and sweater sets? And black? I wear a lot of black. Everyone looks good in black. She had me rattled. Maybe I should just go home and hide in a dark room until a makeup artist could be found.

  I adjusted the rearview mirror and looked at my face. I didn’t see anything horribly wrong with it, though I’d like to perfect the smoky eye thing better. I pushed the mirror back into place and tried to laugh off Martha Aiello’s opinion. I figured this was how she treated Mandy her entire life. No wonder the young woman was hoping the Spiegels were her parents. A lifetime of trying to have a discussion only to have one insult after another hurled back at you, and in a way that made it seem the comments were really for your own good. Oh, Martha Aiello was good. I’d give her that, but how was I going to find out anything else? Did she also get Sheldon’s number and call him back at some point to discuss the issue further, only to put a gun to his head? I could see her doing it. Maybe with the help of one of her aides.

  Then I had a thought. The aides. Maybe I should be speaking with them. Martha said Sheldon Spiegel confronted her at the campaign headquarters, which meant her staff would most likely have been around. Someone must have heard something.

  I thought a talk with the young man I had spoken to in the lobby might garner me some more information. He told me Martha had an appointment, but neglected to tell me whether it was at her office or away. I took the key out of the ignition and looked toward the office. If the meeting was someplace else, she would have to leave soon. I opened up my glove compartment and took out a small bag of M&M’s, which I ate while I watched the front of the campaign headquarters.

  I was almost through the bag when the door of the office opened and Martha Aiello stepped out. She headed my way and I started rummaging in my purse as an excuse in case she saw me. I could pretend that I was looking for something if she happened to tap on my window with more fashion advice, but instead she got into a car parked three spaces ahead of me. Perfect. I waited for her to pull out and drive away, and then I locked my car and walked back to her office.

  “Oh, it’s you again. Mrs. Aiello just left. You’ll have to make an appointment if you want to speak with her again,” blue tie said to me.

  “Actually, I was hoping to speak with you.”

  The young man looked nervous. “Me? Why?”

  “Can you tell me if you were here last Monday morning when a man came to see Mrs. Aiello?” Blue tie looked to be about twenty-two and had dark hair and piercing green eyes. A nice looking young man. I wondered if he had been subjected to her advice and had received a makeover.

  “I was here. I’m Kurt, by the way. I told him Martha was busy, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He marched right back to her office. I thought for sure I would be fired for letting him get past me. Not that I get paid much, mind you, but she goes through staff quickly. I get credit for this job, plus I’m hoping it will lead to something more permanent when I graduate in May.”

  I looked at him incredulously. “Really? You’d want to come back and work for her full time?”

  “God no! What I really wanted to do with my life was to be the next triple threat theater major with a bright future on Broadway, you know, like Hugh Jackman, but my dad thought government was a more, well, manly path to take. It’s not so bad, I guess. I wouldn’t mind working in city government and this would be a good reference. Anyone who can survive working for Martha Aiello could probably work anywhere. But I couldn’t put it down if she fired me, though I’m pretty sure I could use it as a sympathy reference. Everyone knows what she’s like.”

  Personally, I thought the kid should pursue his love of the theater. Or grave digger. Or just about anything other than working for politicians.

  “So what happened with Mr. Spiegel?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Spiegel. The man that showed up last Monday.”

  “Oh, right. He never told me his name. Just said he had to speak with Martha and then he marched off to her office.”

  “And then what happened?”

  Kurt shrugged. “Not a lot, actually. I kept an eye on the office, you know, in case she came storming ou
t, but they talked for a few minutes and then he left.”

  I gave Kurt a sympathetic look. “And then you got in trouble?”

  “No. Nothing. I know, right? Surprised me, too. But she never said anything to me.”

  I leaned on the counter looking dejected. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. It was a good idea in theory, even if it didn’t yield me any new clues.

  Kurt smiled. “Nothing happened to me, but she was a real bi…she was really nasty for the rest of the day. More moody than usual, even canceled an appointment, and she never does that. She left early and came in very late on Tuesday. Not like her at all. Look, I have a lot of stuff to do and her appointment wasn’t very far away. She might be coming back soon. She does that, just to check up on people. Makes fake appointments and then sneaks back trying to catch us goofing off or something. You should leave.”

  I thanked Kurt and returned to my car, but not before I urged him to follow his true path. Whatever Mr. Spiegel said to Martha Aiello it managed to crack her iron lady veneer. Now all I had to do was figure out if it led her to murder.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Long before I was born my grandmother bought a brownstone on Court Street, which was part of the Wooster Square neighborhood in New Haven. At one point in the eighteen hundreds Wooster Square was a residential area where ship captains built houses to be near the port, but by the late nineteenth century the area became more industrial and thus a less desirable location for the current residents. Eventually Italian immigrants moved in.

  The neighborhood was destined to be demolished, but some believed it was worth saving and the Wooster Square Project was born. All the houses on my grandmother’s street got a makeover, trees were planted, and the street became a no-car zone. Wooster Square was listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and my grandmother was quite proud.

  Over the years Meme had been lucky enough to have a never-ending supply of professors from Yale to whom she could rent her apartments. She kept the small one-room basement apartment for herself, and Sam and I loved to visit. The area was vibrant and full of life. I hadn’t been to the area since Meme moved to Indian Cove, but today I found myself only a couple of blocks away from my grandmother’s old house.