Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  with her at work.’’

  ‘‘Thanks,’’ I mouthed, as she went back to hanging

  Derwin out to dry.

  ‘‘Do you really want me to tell you what to do with

  those tickets?’’ she put to him just before I was out of earshot.

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  73

  *

  *

  *

  Ellen’s voice crackled with excitement. ‘‘They came

  last night!’’

  ‘‘What did?’’

  ‘‘My shower gifts,’’ she responded, not quite able to

  conceal her impatience. From her tone, she might just

  as well have added, ‘‘Dummy.’’

  ‘‘But you were at the funeral home last night.’’

  ‘‘I gave the keys to Ginger.’’

  I couldn’t resist. ‘‘ ‘. . . who lives in my building,’ ’’

  I finished for her.

  ‘‘Huh?’’ She obviously didn’t get it.

  ‘‘Never mind.’’ But I could feel the grin spreading

  over my face.

  ‘‘Anyway, I spoke to this woman from Silver Oaks

  yesterday, and she asked if it would be okay if some

  body dropped off the packages that evening. It was

  really nice that they were willing to do a thing like that, and I didn’t want to make things difficult for whoever was doing the delivering. Also, I could hardly

  wait to see the gifts. So I said for the man to ring Ginger’s bell, and then she let him into my apartment.

  ‘‘Listen, Aunt Dez, I am thrilled with the china. But you’ve gotta be crazy, springing for anything that ex

  pensive with all you must have spent on the shower. My God! That was present enough.’’

  ‘‘Yes, especially since it was such a pleasurable ex

  perience,’’ I said dryly.

  ‘‘But that wasn’t your fault.’’

  ‘‘At any rate, Allison and I—your mother, too,’’ I

  included with a grimace, ‘‘decided it would be nice to start you off with a few place settings.’’

  Now, Ellen had really startled everybody when she

  selected a dinnerware pattern. I mean, while she’s

  been known to whip up a very decent breakfast, after

  twelve noon her culinary talents come to a screeching

  halt. (Don’t ask me to explain it, either.) Ellen’s idea of preparing dinner is to reheat the Chinese takeout. Well, I suppose even moo goo gai pan seems a little more gourmetish on Limoges.

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  Selma Eichler

  ‘‘What were some of your other presents?’’ I was

  foolish enough to inquire.

  I expected to hear about the half dozen or so items

  she was most enthusiastic about. Instead, my niece

  proceeded to enumerate around fifty, describing some

  of them in great detail. I probably should have been thankful that a number of the gifts were from more

  than one guest.

  ‘‘Barbara and Harriet from your building? They

  gave us a beautiful crystal vase,’’ she began. ‘‘And we

  got the most gorgeous silver tray from my friends at work. It came from Tiffany’s,’’ she added, sounding

  suitably impressed. ‘‘Somebody else—I forget who—

  gave us . . .’’ And she went on. And on. And on.

  ‘‘. . . Plus, we got three toaster ovens,’’ she finally concluded. But not before relating the specific features

  of each.

  The conversation ended with Ellen’s extracting my

  promise to stop by for a look at her bounty as soon as I had a chance.

  Something I was eager to do anyway.

  The phone rang as I was reaching to turn on my

  Mac.

  ‘‘It’s Allison, Desiree. Chief Porchow just tele

  phoned. The autopsy report has come in.’’ Every mus

  cle in my body tensed. ‘‘He’ll be over at four to talk to us.’’

  ‘‘He didn’t give you any idea of the results?’’

  ‘‘None. But I’m feeling very uneasy about this.

  After all, if Bobbie Jean died of natural causes, why wouldn’t he just say that then and there? Why would he want to see us?’’

  ‘‘I’m afraid you’re right. You’ll let me know as soon

  as he leaves, won’t you.’’ I didn’t put it as a question. Forcing Allison’s news from my mind, I spent the

  next few hours transcribing my notes on this morning’s

  interrogation of Lorraine Corwin. I didn’t even break to go out to lunch. This, however, is not to imply

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  75

  that I skipped a meal—which is practically against my

  religion. In between the struggle to decipher my hand

  writing and the determination to type at a speed that would not cause your average snail any embar

  rassment, I managed to consume a BLT (minus the

  L) and a Coke at my desk.

  In spite of my diligence, though, I still wasn’t able to

  finish the job. Because before you could say, ‘‘Grace Banner,’’ three thirty had sneaked up on me.

  And minutes later the second of my suspects

  arrived.

  Chapter 12

  Grace Banner collapsed in the chair.

  If anything, she looked even more waiflike than she

  had on Sunday. Her lightweight cotton dress was suf

  fering the effects of some determined store-to-store

  shopping, coupled with a temperature that when I last

  heard—and this was hours ago—was eighty-nine de

  grees and climbing. The wilted blue-and-yellow print

  garment clung stubbornly to her thin, boyish frame,

  broadcasting the absence of even the most miniscule

  swelling in the chest area. The woman’s plain brown

  hair was in an equally sad state, plastered against her head and hanging in moist clumps to the middle of

  her neck.

  Seated alongside my desk in the only visitor’s chair my cigar-box-of-an-office can accommodate, she was

  soon busily engaged in searching through her purse.

  She finally pulled out a tissue and hastily wiped her damp forehead. Then she eked out a halfhearted

  smile. ‘‘I’m exhausted. Shopping isn’t easy.’’

  ‘‘Well, at least you accomplished something.’’ There

  were three bags at her feet—from Lord & Taylor,

  Bloomingdale’s, and Saks Fifth Avenue.

  ‘‘I hope so. But once I get home, my family—which

  includes two very finicky daughters—could decide that

  they hate everything I’ve bought, and I’ll have to come

  back and return all of this.’’ Biting her lip, she ges

  tured toward her purchases. ‘‘To tell you the truth, I’m

  already having second thoughts about the cashmere

  sweater I picked out for Karl—that’s my husband. It’s

  apricot, and I’m not sure how he’ll feel about apricot.’’

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  And now, wincing, she inquired shyly, ‘‘I hate to ask, but would you mind very much if I slipped off my

  shoes? I’m . . . well, I’m in agony.’’

  ‘‘Please. Be my guest. I’ve been there myself.’’ (I

  almost said—unintentionally, I swear—‘‘I’ve been in

  your shoes myself.’’ But I bit back the unforgivable pun just in time.)

  Grace removed her sensible bone-colored oxfords

  (which evidently weren’t sensible enough) and, bend

  ing down, placed them neatly under the chair. She

  sighed with relief, then fixed me with forthri
ght brown

  eyes. ‘‘You wanted to talk to me about Bobbie Jean.’’

  ‘‘I did—that is, I do. But first, would you like me to

  order up a soda for you? Or how about an iced tea?’’

  ‘‘Nothing, thank you. I had a cold drink a few min

  utes ago, right before I came up here.’’

  ‘‘Well, suppose we get started then. I’d like you to tell me what occurred between you and Bobbie Jean.’’

  ‘‘All right.’’ And leaning back in her seat now,

  Grace cleared her throat. After which she began to

  lay out the details of her feud with the victim, her voice low and even.

  ‘‘Karl and I became partners in a restaurant with

  her.’’

  ‘‘When was this?’’ I asked before she could go on.

  ‘‘Close to ten years ago. Back then it seemed as if it could turn out to be a lucrative undertaking for all three of us. Bobbie Jean had more money than she

  knew what to do with, and she was looking to invest in a promising business. And Karl had had a great

  deal of restaurant experience—he’d managed a num

  ber of extremely successful establishments. Also, we

  were able to find decent space in a good location at a very fair price. And—’’

  ‘‘Had you previously worked in that field, too?’’

  ‘‘No, but I was more than willing to do whatever

  had to be done to help make a go of the place. And if I have any talent whatsoever, Desiree, it’s for fol

  lowing instructions. In other words, I was the ideal fill-in. One day I would act as hostess. The next I

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  Selma Eichler

  might be chopping vegetables or waiting on tables. I even went to bartender school for a few weeks—just

  in case. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted one of my pin˜ a coladas,’’ she bragged with a little laugh.

  ‘‘And what was Bobbie Jean’s contribution, other

  than monetary?’’

  ‘‘None. It had been agreed that her participation

  would be limited to the financing, while Karl and I, who were investing much less, would be responsible

  for the actual operation of BanJean’s—that was the

  name of the restaurant. It’s a combination of Banner and Bobbie Jean. We—’’

  I jumped in again. ‘‘BanJean’s was located in

  Connecticut?’’

  ‘‘Yes, in Greenwich. Just seven blocks from our

  house.’’ And here Grace paused, apparently anticipat

  ing another interruption. But a few seconds of silence

  convinced her that it was safe to continue. ‘‘BanJean’s

  really wasn’t doing at all badly. Not when you consider

  that it had been in existence less than a year. But Bobbie Jean had expected that it would be like an

  instant magnet for everyone in the area with an Amer

  ican Express card. And when that didn’t happen, she

  took Karl and me to court, claiming that we’d been

  defrauding her. Or anyway, that was one reason for

  the law suit.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean ‘ one reason’?’’

  Grace flushed. ‘‘I should tell you that Bobbie Jean

  wasn’t a very moral person. In fact, she was almost notorious for her, um, sexual doings. And she devel

  oped this . . . these feelings for Karl.’’ The flush deep

  ened. ‘‘I’m not sure exactly when she decided that she

  had to have him—you know what I mean—but six or

  seven months after BanJean’s opened, she suddenly

  began stopping in for lunch several days a week. And

  by herself, too.’’

  ‘‘She hadn’t done that before?’’

  ‘‘No. She lived on Long Island, and while the res

  taurant wasn’t terribly far from her home, it wasn’t right around the corner, either. So previously she

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  would just come in sporadically, mostly for dinner.

  And always with some gentleman friend.’’

  ‘‘What makes you think your husband was the rea

  son for this change in pattern?’’

  ‘‘Because she propositioned him one afternoon

  when I was out with the flu,’’ Grace said matter-of

  factly.

  ‘‘He told you about this?’’

  ‘‘Oh, not right away. And only under pressure. I

  noticed that Karl had suddenly begun acting very cool

  toward Bobbie Jean, even attempting to avoid her.

  And for her part, after increasing her visits to the restaurant like that, all of a sudden she cut way back on them. Also, she practically ignored Karl when she did show up. I questioned him about it, but he insisted

  I was imagining things. Eventually, though, I became

  positive that my imagination had nothing to do with

  it, and I confronted him. Karl did a lot of hemming and hawing, but like any good wife’’—a small smile

  here—‘‘I nagged the life out of him. And he finally

  came clean.’’

  Well, I wasn’t too surprised to learn that Bobbie

  Jean’s sexual aggressiveness had entered into her

  falling-out with Grace. The fact is, when Allison had omitted this element from her abbreviated version of

  the hostilities between the two women, it had crossed my mind that at least this was one feud the deceased had been involved in where she’d kept her panties on.

  Evidently, however, that had not been from choice.

  ‘‘Did you ever confront Bobbie Jean about this?’’

  ‘‘Not until she slapped us with that law suit—which

  was soon afterward. Before then, I was too concerned

  about what it could do to BanJean’s if I brought things

  out in the open. Anyway, Bobbie Jean denied

  everything.’’

  ‘‘And you think she filed that suit because she was

  a woman scorned?’’

  ‘‘I certainly think that entered into it,’’ Grace de

  clared. ‘‘And I would guess that what she found partic

  ularly disturbing about her failure to seduce Karl was

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  Selma Eichler

  that he was my husband. Let’s face it, I’m no Pa

  mela Anderson.

  ‘‘Incidentally, Desiree, I happen to be married to a very handsome fellow. Wait.’’ And unclasping the

  purse in her lap, she extracted a bulky brown wallet and flipped it open to a photograph. Then leaning

  across the desk, she handed me the wallet. ‘‘And by the way, he’s a terrific person, as well,’’ she in

  formed me.

  The headshot was of a fair-haired man with a daz

  zling smile and dark, piercing eyes above thick, dark eyebrows. ‘‘He is good-looking,’’ I agreed, returning the wallet. But the skeptical part of my brain alerted me to the possibility that the photo could be twenty years old or more.

  Obviously the possessor of psychic powers, Grace

  said, ‘‘That was taken last year.

  ‘‘I recall the first time Karl asked me out,’’ she

  mused. ‘‘I was almost convinced that I’d misunder

  stood him. But I hadn’t. I was the one he wanted

  when we were in our twenties. And fortunately, I’m

  still the one he wants. I’m sure a great many people don’t understand it, and I don’t blame them. Heck,

  even I don’t understand it.’’ At that moment she

  grinned, a sweet, shy kind of grin. And all at once I could understand it. I mean, there was something very

  vulnerable, very endearing about that expression—and

  something ver
y appealing about this woman.

  Don’t go overboard! I quickly cautioned myself. Which was definitely sound advice. After all, there was

  a one in four chance (or so I persisted in regarding it) that this timid, self-deprecating little lady here had just treated her former partner to a lethal dose of poison.

  Grace was now sitting there stock-still, with a far

  away look in her eyes, so I prompted, ‘‘You were

  telling me what motivated Bobbie Jean’s lawsuit.’’

  ‘‘Yes. As I see it, she had been completely trauma

  tized by Karl’s rejection. I realize I’m not a psychia

  trist, Desiree. I did get to know her fairly well, though,

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  81

  and it’s my opinion that Bobbie Jean measured her

  worth as a human being by her success with men. But

  anyhow, that suit gave her the opportunity to humili

  ate my husband— and me, for that matter—as she felt she’d been humiliated.

  ‘‘While it’s true that she did have very unrealistic expectations for the restaurant,’’ Grace added, ‘‘I

  don’t think she ever believed deep-down that we’d

  been defrauding her. She let herself believe it because she wanted to.’’

  ‘‘Precisely what is it you and your husband were

  supposed to have done?’’

  ‘‘She accused us of falsifying the purchase receipts, which she based on the word of an ex-employee—Ty

  Gregory—who had a grievance against us. Ty had

  been a waiter at BanJean’s since we opened. He was

  quite attractive, and for a while there was some talk at the restaurant about him and Bobbie Jean being

  lovers. From what I gathered, the affair was over be

  fore she made that play for Karl, but it’s very possible

  it resumed after Ty was let go—or maybe even be

  fore that.’’

  ‘‘Why did you get rid of Ty?’’

  ‘‘Karl and I didn’t want to, honestly. But we had

  no choice. From the beginning there were complaints

  from our customers about his attitude, and we kept

  warning him that he’d have to be more pleasant to

  people. But it didn’t do the least bit of good. And so about nine months after he started with us, we had to

  terminate him.

  ‘‘Well, it wasn’t too much later that Ty told Bobbie

  Jean we were in cahoots with some of our suppliers

  to deny her her fair share of the profits. The story he gave her was that we purchased inferior meats and

  produce for the restaurant but that these suppliers