Read Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite for Free Online

Lou said, opening the manila folder in front of him. Briefly, he gave me a rundown of the facts, mostly expanding slightly on what I already knew. There was, however, one addition.
    “I think we may have a handle on the murder car,” he told me. “We got a report that a Toyota Camry was stolen a few days ago. Same color, same year as the vehicle our witnesses reported seeing. I’ve been attempting to contact the owner—I’ve already left two messages on the man’s machine—but if I don’t hear back by this afternoon, maybe you and I should drive by his house.”
    “Fine,” I agreed. And close on the heels of this: “You haven’t spoken to the widow yet, I take it.”
    Lou shook his head. “She just flew in from Europe yesterday. There was a delay in notifying her of her husband’s death. It seems she went on a little side trip from Paris to the French countryside for a couple of days, and nobody knew where she was staying. I’ll—we’ll—be going over to her place later to talk to her.”
    I nodded. “Do you know the woman?”
    “No.”
    “What about the victim?”
    “Another no. Riverton may not be Manhattan, Desiree, but it’s not Grover’s Corners, either. We’ve got a fairly large population, for your information.”
    “Vincent was involved in politics,” I retorted a shade defensively. “I thought you might have see him on TV.”
    “Never laid eyes on him.”
    “Uh, listen, do you think I could talk to those two witnesses you have? It isn’t that I don’t think you’ve gotten all you could from them, it’s just that—”
    Lou spared me the rest of it. “It’s okay. I imagine I’d feel the same way in your shoes.” Then somewhat grudgingly: “I’ll make a couple of calls and see what I can do about setting things up. In the meantime, let me take you to your space.”
    We didn’t have to go any farther than right next door.
    The space I’d been allotted was cramped enough to make me feel at home. The major differences between this office and my own, however, were that this one was positively pristine, most likely having been hastily set up only yesterday in anticipation of my uncelebrated arrival. Plus two chairs had been squeezed in here—along with a beat-up desk, a lamp, a phone, a computer, and the usual supplies. I was pleased to see that some thoughtful soul had even provided a couple of coat hangers.
    Lou left me to get settled in, showing up again about fifteen minutes later, wearing his suit jacket. “I got a call from the owner of that Toyota Camry,” he announced.
    “And?”
    “I think it’s even more likely that this is the car we’re looking for.”
    “Why? What did he say?”
    “That it was heisted from in front of a liquor store around eleven p.m. Tuesday—the night before the shooting. It was his own fault, too. What we’re dealing with is some young wiseguy who was dopey enough to leave the keys in the ignition. Anyhow, he said he only reported the theft because his father insisted. The father’s the one who got him to return my calls, too, by the way. It seems that this punk kid isn’t too keen on cops. He says he knew all along we’d never find his car. According to him, cops are only good for one thing: hassling people. Anyhow, he was having his friend drive him around to look for the car, and they finally came across it late yesterday in a vacant lot. I arranged to have the vehicle dusted for prints this afternoon, but I’m not very hopeful. The little bastard’s had it back for almost a day, so if there were any prints, he’s most likely obliterated them.”
    Then abruptly Lou said, “Okay, why don’t you go powder your nose.” And in response to my startled expression: “Lottie Schmidt is at home waiting for us—she’s the woman who was on the scene when the victim was shot. She told me a few minutes ago to come right on over. You do want to use the ladies’ room before we leave, though, don’t you?”
    I replied that this might be a