Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  I didn’t know what to say to this. ‘‘Umm, I’m going to need the telephone numbers of those women from

  you,’’ I brought up instead. ‘‘I’ll be contacting them to schedule appointments. And, Allison? It would be

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  really helpful if you’d phone them and request that

  they agree to see me. Uh, and if you could do it as soon as possible . . . ?’’

  ‘‘I’ll make the calls in the morning.’’

  Minutes later we were standing at the half-open

  door.

  Allison looked so forlorn that, for her sake, I forced

  myself to voice what I’d been refusing to allow myself

  to so much as think about since Sunday.

  I broached the subject with, ‘‘It might be worthwhile

  if you tried coming up with the names of other people

  who have had problems with your sister-in-law. I’m

  referring to people who didn’t attend the shower.’’

  ‘‘I don’t understand.’’

  ‘‘Well, we’ll probably know more when the autopsy

  report comes in, but there’s always the chance that a slow-acting poison had been administered to Bobbie

  Jean days or even weeks earlier.’’

  In a case like that, of course, the list of suspects could be practically endless. And this was particularly true when you had a victim like Bobbie Jean Morton.

  But Allison brightened. ‘‘I’ll do that,’’ she said,

  sounding upbeat for the first time that evening.

  I, on the other hand, was—for obvious reasons—

  not at all happy with this theory.

  In fact, I was feeling pretty damn queasy as I closed

  the door behind her.

  Chapter 9

  I had to give Allison time to contact those four sus

  pects and pave the way for me. So somehow I man

  aged to keep my itchy forefinger away from the

  telephone dial all of Wednesday morning.

  However, at precisely two o’clock—which is when I got

  back from lunch—I couldn’t contain myself any longer.

  I kicked off with a call to Lorraine Corwin, mostly because I wanted to get that one over with. I mean, not only did I have a decidedly negative impression

  of Ms. Corwin, but I figured her to require some

  heavy-duty persuasion when it came to scheduling an

  appointment with me.

  I was so wrong.

  After reminding her we’d met at the shower (I

  couldn’t say, ‘‘almost met,’’ could I?) and that I was Ellen’s aunt, I explained that I was a PI looking into Bobbie Jean’s death.

  ‘‘I remember you. You’re the woman with the beau

  tiful red hair.’’

  I almost fell off the chair.

  ‘‘Well, thank you. Uh, I suppose you’ve spoken to

  Allison today,’’ I said, as, almost of its own volition, my hand went to my head and began playing with my

  sticky, oversprayed coiffure.

  ‘‘No, why?’’

  ‘‘She was going to request that you get together

  with me to talk about Bobbie Jean.’’ I hastily threw in the usual lie: ‘‘I won’t take up much of your time.’’

  ‘‘Could be Allison did phone. I’ve been out of the

  office all day—I just this second walked in—and I

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  57

  haven’t had a chance to check my messages yet. When

  would you like to have this talk?’’

  ‘‘As soon as you can make it.’’

  Lorraine’s tone was regretful. ‘‘I can’t do it today anymore. Is tomorrow okay?’’

  ‘‘Fine. What time?’’

  ‘‘I live here in the city, so I’m pretty flexible. I’d really prefer it if we could make it around eight

  o’clock, though, if that’s all right with you.’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘We could meet for coffee,’’ she suggested, men

  tioning a coffee shop on West Fifty-second Street,

  near her workplace. ‘‘They make a great cuppa, and

  they don’t care how long you sit around.’’

  ‘‘Sounds ideal. Well, see you tomorrow night.’’

  The receiver was more than halfway to its cradle

  when Lorraine shouted something.

  I quickly brought it up to my ear again. ‘‘What

  was that?’’

  ‘‘I meant eight in the morning—before work.’’

  ‘‘Oh. That’s even better.’’

  But I hung up grousing to myself. Eight in the morn

  ing? Who sets something up for that hour, anyway?

  (Listen, I’m lucky if I can drag my behind out of the apartment in time to get to the office by nine thirty. Which only happens on my good days.)

  Well, I did say that I wanted to get together as soon

  as possible.

  Still, my initial dislike for Lorraine Corwin momen

  tarily flared up again. I mean, eight a.m.? The woman had to be crazy! Regardless of her appreciation of my

  glorious hennaed hair.

  I reached Grace Banner at work—she was a sales

  person at a leather goods store in Greenwich. She’d

  already been contacted by Allison and would have no

  problem telling me whatever I wanted to know about

  her relationship with Bobbie Jean.

  ‘‘But do you really think she was poisoned?’’ she ventured timidly.

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  Selma Eichler

  ‘‘It hasn’t been ruled out. And the thing is, if it should turn out that she was murdered, it’s more likely that the killer will be identified if the investigation begins now, while the evidence and everyone’s recol

  lection of that day are still fresh.’’

  ‘‘I understand. Do you have any idea when we’ll

  find out for sure what happened to her?’’

  ‘‘It’s hard to predict. It could be today; it could take months.’’

  ‘‘Oh, my.’’

  ‘‘Listen, would it be possible to arrange something

  for tomorrow? I could drive up to Connecticut.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to do that. As it turns out, Thurs

  day’s my day off, and for weeks now I’ve been looking

  for an excuse to come into Manhattan for some

  shopping.’’

  It was agreed that Grace would be at my office at

  three thirty.

  That’s three thirty p.m., of course.

  Robin Fremont wasn’t home, and I elected not to

  leave word on her answering machine. As difficult as

  it is to believe, not everyone is so pleased to hear from me that they’re motivated to return my call. I would try her again later.

  I had better luck with Robin’s daughter. She was

  between patients when I dialed the Manhattan dental

  office where she was employed as a hygienist.

  Replying to my question, the girl told me she’d just

  been handed a message slip with the notation that

  Allison had phoned her at around eleven. But having

  been tied up until about five minutes ago, Carla hadn’t

  gotten back to her yet. ‘‘To be truthful, I was a little surprised that she telephoned me here; we don’t really

  talk that often.’’

  ‘‘I was under the impression that in addition to

  being distant cousins, you’re also good friends.’’

  ‘‘Oh, we are. We’re just not in constant touch, that’s

  all. Allison and my mother are very close, though—

  MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER

  59

  dating from when I
was still toddling around in dia

  pers—and the two of them are always yakking on

  the phone.’’

  I explained the reason Allison was attempting to

  contact her.

  ‘‘Is it definite then?’’ She sounded excited, almost

  ghoulish.

  ‘‘Is what definite?’’ I inquired, just to be certain I hadn’t misinterpreted the question.

  ‘‘That Bobbie Jean was poisoned?’’

  ‘‘No, it’s not definite, but it is pretty likely.’’ And I proceeded to go into my spiel about how important it

  was that I start checking things out before too much time went by.

  Well, Carla was more than willing to sit down with

  me. In fact, unless I was very much mistaken, the word

  was ‘‘eager.’’ No doubt she was unable to resist this opportunity to rant to a brand-new set of ears about the woman who’d appropriated her husband.

  The only problem was that Carla’s job prevented

  her from meeting with me during the day. And she

  already had previous engagements for both tonight

  and tomorrow night that she didn’t feel comfortable

  canceling. Plus—delaying things even further—she

  would be going out of town for the entire weekend

  when she finished work on Friday.

  We left it that she would stop by my apartment on

  Monday at seven p.m.

  Just before five I gave Robin another try—no an

  swer yet. After which I headed home.

  Then, following a quick supper, I dressed for that

  evening’s sad event.

  There must have been a couple of hundred people

  gathered at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home to

  attend the viewing. Most of them wore dark clothes

  and somber expressions and spoke in hushed tones.

  But I had my doubts that more than a handful of them

  truly mourned the deceased.

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  Selma Eichler

  Standing on tiptoe, I was searching for someone I

  knew in the jam-packed room when I spied Wes Lyn

  ton about ten yards away. He was having a conversa

  tion with a short, squat man and a shorter, squatter woman. I was just about to start planting my elbows in some ribs in order to reach him when suddenly the

  crowd between us dispersed for two or three seconds,

  and Wes spotted me, too. He held up his forefinger,

  which I read as, ‘‘Be with you in a minute.’’ And after

  a few words to the people he was standing with, he made his way toward me.

  ‘‘Desiree,’’ he said, his arms outstretched, ‘‘how nice

  of you to be here.’’ I gave him a brief hug and mum

  bled my condolences.

  Now, the one other time I’d met Mike’s father, I’d

  been instantly struck by his aristocratic good looks. A

  tall man and slender, his only slightly thinning hair was a beautiful silver, like his wife’s. His brown eyes were warm and intelligent, his Roman nose the perfect

  fit for his arresting, angular face. I recall thinking at the time that if I had to cast a wealthy and successful physician of sixty or so, I’d do my damnedest to snag Wes Lynton for the role.

  Tonight, however, it appeared that he’d lost a good

  ten pounds and aged about ten years. Even his shoul

  ders were stooped.

  You had merely to be aware of how Bobbie Jean’s

  demise was affecting her brother to appreciate why—

  in spite of Allison’s revelations yesterday—I continued

  to regard the woman’s untimely end as a tragedy. Be

  sides, even though she was certainly no prize package,

  she had to have some redeeming qualities. (Hadn’t Allison mentioned her generosity?) As I saw it, Bob

  bie Jean certainly merited some payback pain in her

  life, but this didn’t give anyone the right to snuff out that life completely.

  Wes and I chatted for a brief time about the state of each other’s health (with Wes insisting that he was

  ‘‘coming along’’). Then he told me how grateful he

  was that I was looking into Bobbie Jean’s death. This,

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  61

  as was only natural, led to an attempt to question me.

  ‘‘Desiree, do you believe that my sister was mur—’’

  Well, it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to figure out

  where he was heading. Fortunately, at that precise mo

  ment Mike and Ellen materialized alongside us, which

  took me off the hook.

  Mike was apologetic. ‘‘I hoped we could make it

  before now, Dad. I switched shifts with someone so I could have tonight off, but there were three emergen

  cies and—’’

  Wes patted his son’s shoulder. ‘‘That’s all right.

  Those things can’t be helped. Bobbie Jean is laid out in the other room, Mike. I’d like to go in again and see

  her one last time. Would you care to come with me?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I would. You stay here with Desiree, Ellen.

  We won’t be long.’’

  Ellen watched the two men walk away and get swal

  lowed up in the crowd. Then, moments later, looking

  perturbed, she murmured, ‘‘Maybe I should have gone

  with them.’’

  ‘‘What, so you could pass out cold?’’

  She shot me a black look. ‘‘Don’t be silly. I—’’

  ‘‘Look, Ellen, Bobbie Jean was practically a

  stranger to you, even if she was Mike’s aunt. And

  anyhow,’’ I pointed out, ‘‘it’s evident that neither

  Mike nor Wes expected that of you.’’

  Ellen was relieved. ‘‘I guess,’’ she responded softly, immediately following this with the demand that I fill her in on what I’d learned about the deceased.

  ‘‘If you’re talking about the cause of her death, ab

  solutely nothing. But if you’re referring to what I

  found out about her character, I discovered that it

  wasn’t exactly sterling.’’

  ‘‘Mike more or less indicated that. He was still fond

  of her, though.’’

  It was at this juncture that Ellen caught a glimpse of Allison, who was not more than an arm’s length

  away from us. ‘‘There’s Mike’s mother,’’ she informed

  me. Unaware of our presence, Allison was attempting

  to squeeze through the wall-to-wall people, Robin Fre

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  Selma Eichler

  mont close behind her, clutching her hand. They had

  already passed us when Ellen, leaning over, managed

  to grab Robin’s shoulder.

  ‘‘Ellen! I’ve been looking all over for you!’’ Allison

  exclaimed as the two women approached us. ‘‘And

  Desiree. I appreciate your coming.’’ She bussed us

  both on the cheek.

  ‘‘Allison tells me you’re anxious to meet with me

  about Bobbie Jean,’’ Robin said after the hellos.

  ‘‘Yes, I am.’’

  ‘‘Well, I’ll be very happy to accommodate you.’’

  ‘‘That’s great. Suppose I drive out to Greenwich on

  Friday? Any time you say.’’

  ‘‘Come at twelve thirty—for lunch.’’

  ‘‘Have you seen Wes?’’ I overheard Allison put to

  Ellen now.

  ‘‘He and Mike went to view the bod—To say good

  bye to Bobbie Jean.’’

  ‘‘Something I can’t bring myself to do,’’ Allison ad

  mitted sheepishly.

  Tapping
my niece on the arm, I shot her a ‘‘You

  see?’’ kind of look.

  A few minutes later Robin was quizzing Ellen about

  her honeymoon plans, which, as of last week, had been

  narrowed down to eight locations—count ’em, eight.

  At about this same time, Allison apprised me that

  she’d already begun preparing a list of Bobbie Jeanhaters who weren’t at the shower on Sunday. Yesterday’s queasy feeling instantly resurfaced, but

  I hurriedly suppressed it. ‘‘Your other three friends—

  are they around somewhere?’’

  ‘‘No. Carla told me that in light of her negative

  feelings toward Bobbie Jean, she didn’t think it would

  be appropriate for her to attend.’’ Ahh. I’d been won

  dering if the viewing could be one of the ‘‘previous engagements’’ Carla had spoken of.

  ‘‘Her mother doesn’t appear to share that senti

  ment,’’ I remarked.

  Allison glanced affectionately at Robin. ‘‘She in

  sisted on being here—for Wes and me, she said. As

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  63

  for Lorraine and Grace, they were planning to show

  up, mainly out of respect for Wes. But I convinced

  them he’d understand if they didn’t.’’ She waited a

  second or two before adding, ‘‘To be truthful, I was relieved by the decision.’’

  Before I could ask why, Allison smiled mischie

  vously. ‘‘I’d be absolutely mortified if Lorraine wound

  up dancing on the coffin.’’

  Chapter 10

  I was still brushing the sleep from my eyes when I walked into the Monte Carlo Coffee Shop at eight

  a.m. This Lorraine Corwin was a damned sadist, I

  groused to myself.

  I spotted the lady in a booth toward the back—

  you’d have had to be blind to miss her. Even sitting down, she had the advantage height-wise over every

  other female in the place. And most of the men, too. She was wearing a very large, wide-brimmed hat—

  which I was beginning to think was a trademark of

  hers—this one in navy straw. And while I couldn’t see

  all that much of her sleeveless navy dress, there was sufficient de´colletage to cause a four-car pileup. As for this morning’s jewelry, she had on six rings, three on each hand. Plus, I counted seven bracelets on her left forearm—one of them really chunky—and three

  on her right. It’s a wonder the woman was able to

  raise her arms! She didn’t neglect her neck, either. It was adorned with a gold, amethyst, and pearl chain

  and a turquoise pendant. Oh, and let’s not forget the gold-and-pearl earrings, which came close to brushing