Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  My visitor smiled crookedly. ‘‘Yeah, ‘Oh.’ I wanted

  him to commit, and he wanted a little time to think it over—three or four years’ worth. But why am I

  going into this?’’

  ‘‘Maybe it will still work out,’’ I suggested timidly.

  ‘‘I don’t even care anymore,’’ she stated with an

  unconvincing display of bravado. ‘‘There’s only one

  thing that concerns me now.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘How do I tell my mother?’’

  ‘‘She likes this man?’’

  ‘‘My mother, Desiree, would like Count Dracula if

  there were any possibility of his becoming her son-in

  law. She used to fall all over Roy, too, when I started

  bringing him around.’’

  ‘‘She must have been pretty devastated by what

  Roy . . . when Roy became involved with Bobbie

  Jean.’’

  ‘‘She was. Particularly because she was so worried

  about me—I was inconsolable for a while.’’ And now

  Carla eyed me suspiciously. ‘‘But don’t you dare get it into your head that my mother was the one who

  poisoned that bitch.’’ And unexpectedly, she grinned.

  ‘‘My mother wouldn’t have the patience to bide her time for seven years—not for anything.’’

  Carla took a sip of wine now, then very purposefully

  set the glass on the coffee table. ‘‘And speaking of the poisoning, I understand that Bobbie Jean’s terribly

  unfortunate passing was caused by something in her

  salad.’’

  ‘‘Yes, whoever did this included the leaves of an

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  extremely toxic plant—it’s called monkshood—with

  the rest of the salad greens.’’

  ‘‘I only regret that she didn’t have a long, agonizing

  death. That would have been a fitting end for Bobbie Jean Morton.’’

  Merely considering this alternative brought a smile

  to Carla’s lips and a sparkle to her brown eyes. I half anticipated that any minute now she’d start to rub her

  hands together with glee. But she confined herself to celebrating the thought with another generous piece

  of onion tart.

  ‘‘Do you have any idea who might have killed Bob

  bie Jean?’’ I brought up at this point.

  ‘‘No. Believe me, there wasn’t one person at the

  club that day with the cojones to murder somebody.’’

  ‘‘Well, forget about who murdered her, then. Let’s

  talk about who would have liked to. Naturally, I’m

  only referring to the women who attended the

  shower.’’

  ‘‘Well, I can name two ladies who no doubt would

  have been happy to see Bobbie Jean dead and buried,

  but it’s hard to picture either of them actually doing anything to speed up the process. Anyhow, there’s

  Grace Banner, for one. Grace and her husband were

  stupid enough to go partners in a restaurant with good

  ole Bobbie Jean, and it seems that she gave the Ban

  ners a pretty rotten time of it, suing them for theft or fraud or something. Then there’s Allison’s exroommate, Lorraine . . . Lorraine . . .’’

  ‘‘Corwin,’’ I supplied.

  ‘‘Yeah, her. Bobbie Jean stole her fiance´. But that

  goes back thirty years, if not longer. Still, they say Lorraine never got over it. She never did marry.’’

  ‘‘Anyone else?’’ I asked automatically.

  Carla hesitated long enough to allow me to hope.

  Could it be that she was going to hand me another, more promising suspect? ‘‘Carla?’’ I prompted.

  ‘‘She would never have killed her, though.’’ And

  then with emphasis: ‘‘Absolutely not.’’

  ‘‘Who’s that?’’

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  Once again the girl hesitated, avoiding my eyes now.

  ‘‘Listen, there’s no way she’d have poisoned her hus

  band’s sister.’’

  ‘‘ Allison? You’re talking about Allison? ’’ My voice had shot up so high that my throat ached.

  Carla scowled. ‘‘I just said that I was positive she didn’t do it.’’ A moment later she reflected quietly, ‘‘I

  can’t imagine what it must have been like for Allison,

  though, having to put up with that woman all these

  years. Some of them with the bitch living under her own roof, too. And it had to be doubly tough on her in view of the fact that Wes thought Bobbie Jean prac

  tically sprouted wings.’’

  Not quite accurate, of course. I mean, Wes actually

  had a pretty good fix on his sibling’s character; he simply chose to dump all the blame for her flaws on the poor thing’s having had such an unfulfilled child

  hood. Carla’s assessment hardly merited a correc

  tion, however.

  ‘‘But you’re still certain Allison didn’t do it,’’ I put to her. It was half statement, half question.

  ‘‘That’s right. The Lyntons have always had a great

  marriage—in spite of Bobbie Jean. And I can’t con

  ceive of Allison’s murdering the sister Wes was mis

  guided enough to be crazy about. She would never

  have hurt him like that.’’

  ‘‘Then we agree.’’

  I was about to pose another question, but Carla

  preempted me. ‘‘And don’t ask me to come up with

  anyone else who might have wanted Bobbie Jean in

  her grave, because I can’t. I’ve shot my load.’’

  Well, that ended that.

  I did bring up a couple of other matters, though.

  Had the girl seen anyone entering or leaving the din

  ing room before lunch that day? Well, had she noticed

  anything that was at all suspicious?

  As expected, the inquiries produced a ‘‘no,’’ fol

  lowed by a second ‘‘no.’’

  After which Carla got to her feet.

  ‘‘Would you like to hear what I have to look for

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  ward to tonight?’’ she said as we began walking to

  the door.

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘Informing my mother that a new son-in-law is not

  in her immediate future. She will positively wallow in self-pity. She’ll probably keep me on the phone for

  hours, too. And are you interested in hearing what I can look forward to tomorrow night?’’ This time I had

  no chance to respond. ‘‘Meeting with the Forsythe

  chief of police and answering the same damn ques

  tions I just answered for you.’’

  Standing in the open doorway, I told Carla how

  much I appreciated her cooperation. And then we said

  good night. The girl already had one foot in the hall when she spun around to impart a few words of

  inspiration.

  ‘‘Life is crap,’’ she muttered.

  Then she turned on her heel and was gone.

  Chapter 20

  There wasn’t a speck of onion pie left over—in spite of my denying myself so much as a sliver. But I can’t say that I really minded having to rethink my supper menu; I regarded Carla’s gluttony as a testimonial to my culinary skills.

  Anyway, after considerable deliberation, I decided

  to stir-fry some of the vegetables sitting on the cock

  tail table. Which, with the addition of soy sauce and chopped garlic—along with a little of this and a dash of that—turned out to be a pretty tasty dish.

&
nbsp; I had no sooner plugged in the coffee when the

  doorbell rang. It was Harriet from across the hall, and

  there was a cake box in her hand.

  ‘‘Steve’s in Florida,’’ she announced. ‘‘He flew down

  this morning. It seems Pop’s seriously considering

  remarrying.’’

  ‘‘That’s great!’’ I blurted out, a reaction that was completely in my own self-interest. Pop (a.k.a Gus,

  a.k.a ‘‘the ball-buster’’) being Harriet’s eighty-plus

  father-in-law and my sometime suitor—whether I

  liked it or not. And I didn’t like it one bit. ‘‘Come in and tell me all about it.’’ I pulled her into the room, practically yanking her arm out in my excitement.

  ‘‘She’s a divorceé,’’ Harriet informed me as soon as

  she was seated at the kitchen table. ‘‘Oh, I almost forgot,’’ she said, handing me the box in front of her.

  ‘‘This was supposed to be Steve’s dessert tonight. It’s cherry cheese cake. I thought maybe you’d like some.’’

  ‘‘I certainly would. Thanks.’’

  I cut us a couple of slices of the cake, then quickly

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  poured two cups of coffee and joined her at the table.

  ‘‘You were saying?’’

  ‘‘Steve’s worried sick about his father, Dez. This

  woman—the divorceé—is more than thirty years

  younger than he is.’’

  ‘‘What, in heaven’s name, could she want with

  Pop?’’

  Harriet took a sip of the coffee and grimaced.

  Which didn’t hurt my feelings at all, since almost ev

  eryone reacts to my coffee that way. And after that she had a couple of bites of the cheesecake, no doubt

  to erase the taste of the vile brew. ‘‘Money,’’ she re

  sponded at last.

  ‘‘Pop has money?’’

  ‘‘No, but Steve thinks that maybe she—her name’s Gladys—is under the impression that he does. Any

  how, Steve wants to meet the woman and find out

  what’s what.’’

  ‘‘That’s probably a good idea,’’ I granted grudg

  ingly, concerned that this could lead to Steve’s throw

  ing a monkey wrench into this blessed union. And

  Harriet must have had the same fear. I mean, if the world’s most annoying old man became the world’s

  most annoying old married man, there was a good possibility that he’d cut down on those frequent—and

  often prolonged—New York visits of his. Which, I as

  sure you, Harriet didn’t look forward to any more

  than I did.

  ‘‘Oh, incidentally, I heard from that Forsythe police

  chief this morning,’’ she said then. ‘‘He asked me a million questions.’’ Probably more like four or five.

  ‘‘But Steve claims that’s pretty much routine. Any

  how, I told the chief I’d never even met the poor

  woman before. And he seemed to believe me.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure he did.’’

  ‘‘Have you any idea yet who killed her?’’

  ‘‘Well, I had it narrowed down to four suspects, but

  now I’m not certain I’m on the right track.’’

  ‘‘Would you like my opinion?’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ I told her, anticipating that Harriet’s nomi

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  nation for perpetrator would be as off the wall as my other neighbor’s. Barbara, if you’ll recall, had some

  how divined that it was Ellen’s friend Ginger who’d

  sent the victim on to her reward.

  But Harriet’s idea was a little more general—and a

  lot more apt to be true. ‘‘I wouldn’t be shocked if it turned out that this Bobbie Jean had been playing

  around with the wrong woman’s husband or lover or

  something. After all, she was a very sexy-type person,

  and I imagine men must have found her extremely

  attractive.’’

  ‘‘Apparently they did—at least for a while. None of

  her three marriages lasted, you know.’’

  ‘‘But to have that sort of a hold on men, even if it’s only temporary . . .’’ Harriet smiled wistfully. I can’t say that I didn’t share her sentiment. The

  truth is, though, I found the victim’s effect on the male

  sex somewhat puzzling.

  Okay. I was willing to concede that she was fairly

  good-looking. And that her slim figure included a cou

  ple of really outstanding protuberances, which—from

  what I saw at Ellen’s shower—she wasn’t too modest

  to advertise. (Although why men are so obsessed with

  breasts totally escapes me.) Nevertheless, I really had to marvel at the woman’s success with the opposite

  gender. Listen, there are ladies of my acquaintance

  with equally impressive fronts—along with a whole

  bunch of qualities Bobbie Jean evidently lacked—who

  don’t score particularly well with men.

  ‘‘She certainly was the quintessential femme fatale,

  wasn’t she?’’ Harriet murmured.

  ‘‘Let’s just say that if she’d ever been able to bottle

  whatever it was she had, she could have made Bill

  Gates look like a pauper.’’

  Once Harriet was back across the hall I began to

  rehash my meeting with Carla Fremont. And I had to

  concede that as far as advancing the investigation, it had been a complete washout. I tried to give myself a pep talk. Could be that Carla had provided an

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  important clue, one that I’d somehow missed. And it

  could also be that I’d pick up on it when I went over my notes. However, considering that I intended to

  transcribe the notes tomorrow and study them on

  Wednesday, at the latest, this was a little hard to buy into. I mean, what were the odds I’d suddenly get

  smarter by then?

  Right after this I began thinking about how Carla

  had again been kicked in the head by a man she cared

  about. The girl was right. Life was crap—or, at any rate, what she’d sampled of it so far. But after all, there was—

  The telephone interrupted my ruminations. It was

  close to eleven. Could Nick possibly be calling at

  this hour?

  He couldn’t. Or, anyway, he wasn’t.

  ‘‘I hope I didn’t wake you,’’ Harriet told me, ‘‘but I know you never go to sleep until one.’’ (A slight exaggeration—there have been times when I’ve made

  it to bed before midnight, although not that often, I admit.) ‘‘Good news. I just heard from Steve, and he said that before he even got down to Florida, Pop had

  changed his mind about remarrying. In fact, it appears

  as if my father-in-law and his lady friend might have come to a parting of the ways.’’

  I shivered. And not from the cold, either. ‘‘And you

  consider this good news?’’

  ‘‘Don’t you? Pop’s in circulation again. Not only

  that, Steve told me he asked about you. He wanted

  to know if you were still available.’’ Before I could respond, Harriet giggled. ‘‘Just kidding, Dez,’’ she as

  sured me, continuing to giggle.

  As far as I was concerned, though, this was no sub

  ject for levity. (Listen, if—as the result of being ca

  joled, browbeaten, and emotionally blackmailed by my

  friend Harriet here—you’d spent as many agonizing

  hours with her pain-in-the-butt father-in-law as I h
ad, you wouldn’t exactly be laughing your head off, ei

  ther.) In fact, I failed to see what she could find so amusing. I mean, the woman was positively giddy.

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  137

  Then it occurred to me that after entertaining the pos

  sibility—however briefly—that Pop would no longer

  be foisting himself on her all that often, Harriet must have been shaken to the core by Steve’s bulletin. In fact, it may have sent her straight to the cooking

  sherry.

  And you know something? Between my lack of

  progress in solving the murder of Bobbie Jean Morton

  and the prospect of the dreaded Pop’s return to New York, all of a sudden that cooking sherry didn’t sound

  half bad.

  Chapter 21

  I admit it. I’m as big a busybody as the next one. (Okay, bigger.) Still, being privy to one of Jackie and Derwin’s little squabbles is something I’d just as

  soon avoid.

  With my luck the way it was lately, though, when I got to work on Tuesday Jackie was on the phone,

  lacing into that significant other of hers. I wondered—

  but only for an instant, maybe—what Derwin’s trans

  gression had been this week. Well, whatever it was, to put himself in jeopardy so soon after being on the

  receiving end of that last tongue-lashing I’d overheard,

  the guy had to be either the bravest or dimmest soul God ever created. Listen, you’d think that he’d have been walking on eggs—at least for a while—wouldn’t

  you?

  But maybe he was emboldened because of the way

  things eventually turned out that other time.

  I mean, remember those cheapo theater tickets he’d

  acquired for that past Saturday night? Well, Jackie

  had finally agreed to go to the show with him, all the while bitching like crazy that they’d be sitting at least a mile away from the stage. That, however, was noth

  ing compared to the bitching she did once the perfor

  mance was over. According to Jackie—and she’d

  really ranted on about it at lunch yesterday—this was one of the worst musicals ever produced on Broadway.

  It was such a stinker, in fact, that she actually appreci

  ated being so far removed from it. And what did those

  newspaper critics have for brains, anyhow, giving gar

  bage like that such rave reviews?

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  At any rate, feeling as she did about the show, she’d

  let up on Derwin regarding the seats he’d bought. But