Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite by Selma Eichler

over. Eventually, anyhow. I mean, in spite of a few bumps along the way, our first day together ended on a fairly positive note, didn’t it? So actually, he might already be starting to thaw out.
    Grow up! I retorted. He was only attempting to make the best of what he must consider a barely tolerable situation. Be honest with yourself for a change, will you? The fact is, Lou Hoffman still resents you like hell.
    Well, as much as I wished it were otherwise, I had to concede that this was no doubt true.
    And what’s more, who could blame him?

Chapter 11
    Charlie Ross was short and pudgy, with squinty eyes, a spread-out nose, and scraggly, yellowing gray hair that cried out for a barber. (A little of that Just for Men color gel wouldn’t have hurt, either.) He had agreed to stop in at ten-thirty, and he’d arrived on the dot. Now he was seated in Lou’s office.
    “I wonder if I could ask you to repeat for Detective Shapiro here what you told Sergeant Peterson and me the other day. She’s just become involved in the investigation, and it would be a big help if she could hear directly from you about what it is you saw that evening.”
    Ross shifted his attention to a corner of Lou’s desk—the one that the better part of my rear right cheek was presently occupying. He assessed me frankly for a moment. “No kidding. You’re a detective?” The voice was unusually high pitched for a man’s. But then, it would have been high pitched even for a woman’s.
    “Yes.” I came close to hissing the word.
    He turned to Lou. “I thought all you wanted was for me to answer one or two more questions. I can’t spend all day in the police station, you know. I have a lot to do later.”
    “This will only take a few minutes,” Lou assured him.
    “All right,” Ross agreed grudgingly. He focused on me again. “Well, here’s how it started. I always have the radio on when I’m eating breakfast. And the shooting was reported on the seven o’clock news Thursday morning. Now, as a rule I hardly pay any attention when they talk about what’s been happening locally. It’s usually so depressing—there must be another murder around here every other second lately. But this time I heard ‘Hedden Circle,’ so I stopped and listened. I work there, too, you know. Same building as the victim.” He looked at me expectantly, apparently trying to gauge the impact of his words.
    “You do?” Not wanting to alienate the man, I even tried to pack some heightened excitement into the response.
    “Yes. I’m with O’Connell, Smith, and Goldberg.”
    Judging from the pause, this, too, seemed to call for a reaction. I figured a nod should do it.
    “It’s one of the biggest accounting firms in the state,” Ross apprised me. “Anyhow, from what was said on the radio, I thought maybe I was privy to some facts you people could use. But I don’t like to get involved. Know what I mean?”
    “We do know what you mean, and we’re glad you changed your mind.”
    “Well, as I told the other officer”—he gestured toward Lou—“I wasn’t the one who changed my mind. As a matter of fact, I even discussed the situation with my wife, and we both agreed it would be best if I minded my own business.”
    Would this man ever get around to talking about what he was here for? But in spite of my impatience, I asked politely, “What made you decide to share your information with the police, then?”
    “Not what—who .”
    “Fine. Who, ” I amended.
    “Cookie. My fourteen-year-old daughter. And if you’re wondering how come I’m the father of such a young girl, I didn’t get married until a week past my fortieth birthday. And the way Natalie—that’s my wife—and I were brought up, you didn’t even think about having a baby until after you’d stood in front of a minister and said ‘I do.’ Not that I was anxious for a child even then. Natalie, though, had her heart—”
    By now I was so frustrated I was ready to clobber the man. Lou