Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair Read Online Free Page B

an abrupt, if transient, nosedive.
    “That’s right. Only it’s Shapiro. But call me Desiree.”
    “Uh, sure,” he responded, eyeing me skeptically.
    It was obvious that I wasn’t what David had been anticipating either. Which didn’t exactly throw me. Over the years I’ve discovered that when most peoplethink “female private eye” they draw from the movie version. You know, a tall, busty blonde in a tight sweater and four-inch heels, her shapely legs stretching practically to infinity.
    Well, in my case, this is definitely not what they get.
    Let’s begin with the legs. Mine don’t go very far. The truth is, being barely five-two, there are plenty of times when I’m sitting down that my feet don’t even make contact with the floor. Among the other differences between yours truly and those fictional lady PIs is the fact that I’m full-figured (a term I much prefer to the alternatives)—with my chest the only part of me that isn’t well padded. Which, I suppose, is the reason I don’t have a single tight sweater to my name. Something else I don’t have is blond hair, Egyptian henna being responsible for this exquisite shade of red. And don’t bother checking my closet for any four-inch heels. I wouldn’t be able to walk in those things, much less chase after the bad guys in them. (Actually, you’ll never find me chasing after the bad guys in any height heel.) But to get back to my visitor . . .
    Following me into the kitchen, David addressed my back. “Look, Ms. Shapiro, I hope this won’t take too long. I have a few errands to run today.”
    “I’ll try to keep it brief. And I thought you were going to call me Desiree.”
    “Okay, and you can call me Mr. Hearn.” Then he laughed. “Just kidding. It’s David.”
    The kitchen table was set with my favorite place mats—black-and-white checks to match the black-and-white-checked floor tiles. The napkins were white with black piping. And tying it all together was the pièce de résistance: my new black china. Of which—notwithstanding the insistence of my neighbor Barbara about there being something very unsanitary about black china—I am inordinately proud.
    David took a seat while I attended to some last-minute preparations. Fortunately, when I’d extendedthat lunch invitation there was an Italian bread in the freezer, some Genoa salami, tomato, and Swiss cheese in the refrigerator, and a jar of roasted red peppers on the shelf. I’d prepared the open sandwiches close to two hours ago, so all I had to do now was toast them for a few minutes. In the meantime, I got out the potato salad, cole slaw, and Coke I’d run down to the deli for earlier. Pretty soon I joined David at the table.
    “This is really delicious,” he said after a large bite of the sandwich. He sounded as if he hadn’t expected it to be.
    “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
    “What did you want to ask me about?”
    Now, I couldn’t see ruining a tasty little repast with business. Which I think is particularly understandable when you consider the kind of business I’m in. “Why don’t we hold off until we’re through eating?”
    “Good idea. I’m not in that much of a hurry,” he agreed, grinning.
    We engaged in some small talk after this. I learned that David was a graduate of Yale University and Harvard Law School, that he had recently passed the bar after his second attempt, and that he was presently working for the Manhattan DA’s Office.
    Then it was David’s turn to ask questions. And the first thing he wanted to know was how long I’d been a PI. This being some indication of my age, I chopped off a year or two—okay, five—from my answer. A short while later he wondered aloud about how a husband might react to his wife’s choosing an occupation like mine for a career. I couldn’t speak for anyone else, I told him, but in my case it had been no problem at all. My late husband Ed had been a private investigator, too.
    We continued chatting through