Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite by Selma Eichler Page B

that Toyota, Mr. Ross—do you have anything else to add?” I was, at this juncture, once again teetering on the very brink of violence.
    “I am trying to explain something, Detective,” Ross shot back, his voice having risen to a pitch I wouldn’t have thought possible. “If I’m allowed to finish what I was saying, you’ll see that.”
    “I’m sorry. Please go on.”
    “What I am trying to tell you is that Don Bender didn’t show up for work that day. A stomach virus—he claimed . More likely, though, he was hung over. The man drinks too much, if you want my opinion. At any rate, it also happened that the secretaries all put on their coats exactly at five that evening, just as they do on Fridays—you can set your watch by them on Fridays. Well, the project I was working on was almost completed, and so I decided to take advantage of these fortunate circumstances and stay at my desk to wrap it up.” He sat back in his chair, a superior expression on his face now. “You understand what I’m getting at, don’t you?”
    “Umm, I’m not exactly sure,” I admitted.
    “If I’d quit at my normal time on Wednesday, I might have been able to attest to the car’s being at the scene that much earlier than I’m able to do now. And naturally, it could have been there even before that .”
    “I see what you mean, and I apologize again,” I told him. Which was actually pretty big of me, considering that it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference even if the Camry had been parked there since nine a.m. The fact that the perpetrator was known to have waited two hours for his victim to emerge from that building was good enough for me.
    “Just one thing more,” I said. “Working in the same building like that, were you acquainted with Mr. Vincent?”
    “No, I never met the man. I may have seen him in the elevator or something, but if I did, I don’t recall.” Ross checked his watch now. “Say, do you have any idea what time it is? My wife is going to kill me. I was supposed to drive her over to her mother’s a half hour ago.”
    He looked at Lou accusingly. “And you swore to me this would only take a few minutes.”
     
    “He’s some piece of work,” I commented when Charlie Ross had made his exit at last. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
    “It’s something you have to experience to really appreciate.”
    “Probably. But I can’t understand how you could subject yourself to that impossible person a second time.”
    “Oh, I’m not saying it was easy. But it was worth it.”
    I was immediately concerned that Lou had picked up on something during this session with Ross that I’d overlooked. “What do you mean?”
    He chuckled. “Watching your reaction to his going on and on like that? Well, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

Chapter 12
    Maybe it’s because I can be too sensitive for my own good, but driving over to Oakview Road, I began to wonder about Lou’s not wanting to miss out on my reaction to Charlie Ross.
    Did he enjoy seeing me in uncomfortable situations—was that what he was really saying? Or was I just being paranoid—and was the man only kidding around?
    I was still wrestling with these questions when we pulled up in front of the Shippmans’ imposing red-brick house.
     
    We waited. Then waited some more. But after Lou had pressed the doorbell four separate times at decent intervals, we finally had to acknowledge the likelihood that there was no one home. Well, we’d just have to try the widow’s close friend again later. In the meantime, it seemed like a good idea to begin this afternoon’s visits with one of the Vincents’ next-door neighbors.
     
    Robert and Billie Kovacs lived to the immediate right of Frank and Sheila Vincent.
    Retired and in their seventies, the Kovacses spent a good deal of time traveling and knew the Vincents only casually. Nevertheless, a kindly Billie pronounced them “fine, professional people” and “a lovely and devoted couple.”
    Her