And let’s not forget that Lorraine had opened her
own company only last year. What I’m saying is that, as with the Fremonts, the timing seemed strange to
me. Why would the woman strike out at Bobbie Jean
just when she appeared to be really hitting her stride career-wise?
Finally there was Grace Banner to consider. It was
a decade since the Banners had entered into that part
nership with Bobbie Jean. And less than a year later, she’d accused them of fraud. Well, even allowing for the pokiness of our legal system, Bobbie Jean’s civil action against the pair probably went to court within the next two or three years at the outside. And Grace
told me that their suit against her was disposed of two
years after that. So if Grace Banner was the one who tinkered with our girl’s salad, then she, too, had been sitting on her hands for a while. (Although, of course,
this could hardly compare to her pal Lorraine’s put
ting a thirty-year-plus grievance on hold.) But setting this aside, I went on to examine Robin’s suspicion—
which was probably valid—that a couple of years back,
when Wes was given that surprise party, Grace still
couldn’t bring herself to come face-to-face with the
dead woman. So I put a question to myself. Would a person who wasn’t even up to seeing her adversary have been capable of killing her? Well, let me say this:
I would imagine that to find the courage to commit
murder, Grace Banner would have had to swallow a
lot more than the 0.5 milligrams of Xanax she claimed
she required in order to merely show up at Ellen’s
shower.
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
111
So where did all of my ruminating leave me? Not
very satisfied, I’ll tell you that. And now I was struck by the unthinkable.
Was it actually possible that all four of these ladies were innocent?
I started to get this queasy feeling that seemed to crop up whenever the possibility of broadening the
investigation entered my mind. Then I remembered
that I hadn’t even spoken to the younger of the Fre
monts yet. Maybe Carla would shed some new light
on things when we got together on Monday. That was
certainly conceivable, wasn’t it?
Of course it was. And jutting out my jaw, I elected to remain positive.
At least for another two days.
Chapter 17
There were three messages on the machine when I
returned from Greenwich.
The first was from my across-the-hall neighbor, Har
riet Gould—one of the shower guests. She’d already
phoned twice that week to find out if the autopsy re
port on Bobbie Jean had come in yet.
‘‘You promised to tell me as soon as you learned
anything.’’ Damn! It had gone completely out of my head! ‘‘But I realize how hectic things can get some
times, so I didn’t think you’d mind if I checked back with you. Anyway, hope everything’s okay otherwise.
And keep me posted.’’
The second message was from my right-next-door
neighbor, Barbara Gleason—another of the shower
guests.
‘‘Anything new on that autopsy report? Call when
you have a chance.’’
And then I listened to the third message.
‘‘Hi,’’ said the male voice, ‘‘this is . . . er . . . Nick Grainger.’’ He sounded as if he didn’t relish admitting
it. ‘‘I want to apologize for being so rude to you yes
terday, but, well, you kind of caught me off guard. I hope you’ll let me make amends—maybe we could
have dinner one night. I’ll be in touch.’’
I’m not exactly certain how long I stood there in
front of the answering machine. All I know is that I couldn’t stop smiling.
When I finally exited my trance, I dialed Harriet’s
number. She wasn’t in. I figured that most likely she and her husband Steve were out to dinner, so I left
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
113
word. I told her—and now I couldn’t seem to keep
the smile out of my voice—that I’d just been informed of the results of the autopsy and that Bobbie Jean’s salad had been poisoned. (Well, ‘‘just’’ could mean
different things to different people, couldn’t it?)
After this I tried Barbara.
‘‘Hi, Barbara, how are you?’’ I chirped in response
to her ‘‘hello.’’
‘‘Oh, Dez, I’m glad you caught me. Another few
seconds and I’d have been out of the apartment—I’m
meeting a friend for dinner. Come join us—that is, if you haven’t already eaten.’’
‘‘Thanks anyway, but I’ve had my supper.’’ Okay,
maybe this time I was uttering a teeny falsehood. But I was sparing myself some agita. Barbara doesn’t take too kindly to ‘‘No, thank you.’’
‘‘Say, you sound disgustingly cheerful tonight. Any
particular reason?’’
‘‘That’s simply the way I am.’’
‘‘Yeah, sure. All right, I’ll try and survive without knowing,’’ she mumbled testily. ‘‘Has anything hap
pened with regard to that poor woman who died
Sunday?’’
‘‘As a matter of fact, the autopsy report is in.’’
‘‘Go on.’’
‘‘Bobbie Jean was murdered.’’
‘‘Who? How?’’
‘‘Somebody added some poisonous leaves to her
salad. As for the ‘who,’ I believe that the killer was one of four women—all of whom had a strong motive
for putting Bobbie Jean out of commission. But I
haven’t narrowed it down any further than that. Not
yet, at any rate.’’
‘‘Does that mean you’re investigating this
business?’’
‘‘Uh-huh. Mike asked me to.’’
A restrained ‘‘Hmm’’ was Barbara’s only comment.
‘‘Listen, I don’t want to keep you . . .’’
‘‘Not so fast. What four are we talking about,
anyway?’’
114
Selma Eichler
‘‘It wouldn’t be fair to name names. I’m only specu
lating at this point.’’
Now, I expected an argument here. Or at best, a
little sample of the petulance Barbara so often em
ploys. But she responded with surprising equanimity.
‘‘Okay. But would you care to hear who I think did this?’’
‘‘Why not.’’
‘‘That annoying young thing who went around snap
ping everyone’s picture.’’
Ginger! She suspected Ginger! It’s a tribute to my self-control that I managed to keep from laughing.
‘‘What makes you say that?’’
‘‘My intuition. But you wait. You’ll see that I’m
right.’’
After my conversation with Ms. Nostradamus, I had
a quick bite, following which I sat down at the com
puter and began the never-ending task of typing up
my notes. I finally gave up after jerking myself awake
for the third time.
It was past ten when I got out of bed on Sunday. I had a leisurely breakfast of Cheerios and an Enten
mann’s corn muffin (is there any other kind, really?), along with the coffee of the damned. And then I
phoned the Silver Oaks Country Club. I asked to be
connected with the manager.
It was a fairly lengthy wait before a woman got
on the line. ‘‘Mr. Novak isn’t in today. This is Janice Kramer, the assistant manager.’’ Ahh, the strawberry blonde. ‘‘Perhaps I can help you.’’
‘‘My name is Desiree Shapiro, Ms. Kramer. We’ve
met a couple of times—I was one of the hostesses at last Sunday’s disastrous bridal shower.’’
‘‘Oh . . . of course. I remember you, Ms. Shapiro.’’
But the tentative note in her voice contradicted the words. The way I saw it, though, it was nice of her to make the effort. ‘‘All of us at Silver Oaks are very shaken by this terrible thing,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘Ms.
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
115
Morton was well liked here, you know. And not only
by the other guests, but by our entire staff, as well.’’
I can only hope that when I die people spout the same sort of lies about me. ‘‘I also happen to be a private detective, Ms. Kramer, and I’ve been hired
by the family to look into Mrs. Morton’s death. I’d appreciate it if you could arrange for me to have a brief talk with your employees.’’
‘‘The police have already questioned everyone who
works here.’’
‘‘I’m aware of that. But Mrs. Morton’s family is anx
ious that I conduct a separate investigation.’’
Ms. Kramer appeared to hesitate.
‘‘I can have Dr. Lynton—Mrs. Morton’s brother—
call you to confirm this.’’
Two or three additional seconds of hesitation. ‘‘That
won’t be necessary. I believe almost all of last Sun
day’s staff is in today. I imagine those are the people you’d be most interested in speaking to, so it might be worthwhile for you to come out to Silver Oaks this
afternoon, if you can make it.’’
‘‘I’ll be there.’’
‘‘Fine. I’ll see you then.’’ I was about to say good
bye when she added, ‘‘Umm, Ms. Shapiro? I hope you
don’t think that anyone in our employ would—’’
‘‘No, I don’t. Somebody there may have some
important information without recognizing its sig
nificance, though.’’ And now my brain caught up
with my hearing. ‘‘But didn’t you just tell me that almost all of last Sunday’s staff would be at the club today?’’
‘‘That’s right. One of our people—a waiter—went
on vacation this past Monday. I think he’s due back the Monday after next. I’ll check the schedule and let
you know when you get here.’’
Seeing that majestic mansion again, that sweeping,
picture-perfect front lawn, I felt a baseball-size lump in my throat. Could it have been only one week ago
116
Selma Eichler
that this lovely setting had served as a venue for
murder?
A slim, gray-haired woman with a very pretty face
occupied a small office to the right of the entrance. She looked up at the sound of my footsteps.
‘‘My name is Desiree Shapiro,’’ I informed her,
stopping at her door. ‘‘I’d—’’
‘‘I’m Kathy Marin.’’ Jumping to her feet, she ap
proached me with a fixed smile and an outstretched
hand. ‘‘Ms. Kramer had a minor emergency to attend
to,’’ she apprised me as I shook the hand. ‘‘She should
be back shortly, but in the meantime she asked me
to assist you. She said that you’d probably prefer to interview everyone individually.’’
‘‘Yes, I would.’’
‘‘Then follow me, won’t you? And I’ll get you
settled.’’
I was shown to a tiny room that, I swear, wasn’t an
inch larger than the cubbyhole I occupy at Gilbert and
Sullivan. Somehow, however, somebody had managed
to squeeze a desk and three chairs into these micro
scopic quarters. I was still marveling at this accom
plishment when Kathy invited me to make myself
comfortable. She indicated the chair behind the desk, and I plopped down on the hard, thinly cushioned
seat. Make myself comfortable? She had to be kidding!
‘‘May I get you something?’’ she offered. ‘‘Some
coffee? Or a soft drink, perhaps?’’
‘‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’’
‘‘Shall I begin sending people in now?’’
‘‘Uh, maybe you wouldn’t mind answering a few
questions for me before you do.’’
Kathy Marin was plainly flustered. ‘‘No, no, of
course not. But I’m afraid I don’t know anything that would be helpful to you. I wasn’t even in last
Sunday.’’
‘‘That’s okay. As long as I’m here, I may as well
speak to all the employees—any who are around today, I mean. This will only take a couple of minutes.
I promise.’’
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
117
Never having met me before, the woman appeared
to accept that as gospel. And in this case, it actually turned out to be true. ‘‘All right,’’ she agreed, grace
fully—if reluctantly—placing her trim little posterior
on one of the chairs on the other side of the desk.
‘‘What is it you do here, Ms. Marin?’’
‘‘I’m Ms. Kramer’s assistant. And do call me
Kathy.’’
‘‘And I’m Desiree. Were you acquainted with Mrs.
Morton, Kathy?’’
‘‘Not really. Just to say hello to.’’
‘‘Did you ever hear any gossip pertaining to her?’’
‘‘Gossip?’’
‘‘For example, possibly a staff member had some
sort of trouble with her.’’
‘‘Uh-uh. Not to my knowledge, anyway.’’
‘‘Or maybe there was a problem between Mrs. Mor
ton and one of her fellow club members.’’
‘‘I’m not aware of anything like that.’’
‘‘Well, then, what about an affair?’’
Plainly puzzled now, Kathy lifted two nicely shaped
eyebrows. ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’
‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t put that too clearly. I want to know if there was ever any talk about Mrs. Morton’s being romantically involved with either another club
member or someone on your staff.’’
‘‘If she was, I never heard about it.’’
‘‘Well, thank you very much, Kathy.’’
‘‘That’s it?’’
‘‘That’s it. I told you it would only take a few min
utes.’’ I had to smile at her obvious relief.
‘‘Why don’t I have the first person come in, then,’’
she said, rising. ‘‘And just call me—I’m on extension six—whenever you’re ready to see the next member
of our staff.’’
I might as well have stayed home.
For close to three hours I interviewed waiters and
busboys and chefs. I interrogated the tennis instructor,
the golf pro, a couple of restroom attendants—and I
118
Selma Eichler
can’t even recall who else. But if the victim had been feuding with anyone at Silver Oaks, both she and the party of the second part had managed to keep it pretty
damn quiet. Plus, if Bobbie Jean had added another
notch to her belt—to commemorate a recent lover, I
mean—you couldn’t prove it by these people.
The truth is, though, this didn’t disturb me that
much. Remember, I was still clinging to my original
assumption that it was one of Allison’s f
our buddies who’d given her sister-in-law’s salad that little some
thing extra. What did disappoint me—in spite of my resolve beforehand not to be disappointed—was that nobody who’d been working the shower last Sunday
had spotted any of the women entering or leaving the
dining room before lunch was served. Actually, not
one of them saw or heard anything at all that could add to the pathetically little I already knew.
I stopped at Kathy Marin’s office to thank her for
her assistance before I left.
‘‘Any luck?’’ she asked.
‘‘None.’’
‘‘Well, there’s always Dominick.’’ But she didn’t
look that encouraged herself.
‘‘Dominick?’’
‘‘Dominick Gallo, one of our waiters. Janice—Ms.
Kramer—said that if by any chance she didn’t return
by the time you were finished, I was to give you his name and home telephone number. Dominick’s the
only employee who was in last Sunday who isn’t here today. Oh, and Janice said to tell you that she was right; he’s expected back at work a week from
Monday.’’
Well, having scored a big zero with my questioning,
I no longer held out any real hope for tomorrow’s
interview with Carla Fremont, either. I’ll tell you how
discouraged I was at that moment: so discouraged that
even the fact of Nick’s phone call failed to buoy my spirits. I took the slip of paper Kathy extended to me and stuffed it into the jacket pocket of my yellow linen
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
119
suit. A fat lot of help Dominick’ll turn out to be, I groused to myself.
If I had a tail it would have been between my legs when I left the Silver Oaks Country Club that day.
Chapter 18
And don’t think my mood was any better Sunday eve
ning. I was depressed with a capital D. By now I was actually dreading tomorrow’s meeting with Carla Fre
mont, certain it would be another total washout. I’ll tell you something. If it were somehow possible to
leave myself behind me, I’d have been out of that
apartment in a flash.
Anyhow, at a few minutes to eight, I was curled up
on the sofa trying to decide which awful TV show was
a little less awful than the rest of them, when the phone rang.
My heart jumped into my throat. Nick!
Wrong.
‘‘Is this Desiree Shapiro?’’ a man inquired. He had
a perfectly nice voice, but since it wasn’t Nick
Murder Can Rain on Your Shower Page 13