Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  sist of practically the entire meal—everything but two

  or three mushroom slices, a couple of chunks of green

  pepper, and a single shrimp.

  At any rate, over our entrees, Nick informed me

  that he’d been the sole owner of his Lexington Ave

  nue florist shop for close to eleven years, having

  bought out his former partner: his father.

  ‘‘That has to be the best profession—working with

  flowers all day long.’’

  ‘‘I have to admit that I’m kinda partial to it,’’ he affirmed.

  I asked what the shop was called.

  ‘‘Oh, don’t worry, my dad and I came up with some

  thing extremely creative: Grainger’s.’’

  ‘‘That does have a ring to it. Tell me, what’s your favorite flower?’’ I put to him.

  This gave Nick pause. ‘‘You know, Desiree, I can’t

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  even remember the last time anyone asked me that.

  And the truth is, I don’t really have an answer for you. Naturally, it would be practically un-American

  not to love roses, and they are among my favorites, particularly tea roses. But I’m partial to camellias, as well. Also irises—I love irises. And in the fall, I always

  feel that chrysanthemums lend a kind of exuberance

  to the season. And there’s—’’

  I held up my hand. ‘‘Stop!’’ I said laughing. ‘‘I sup

  pose it would have been a lot easier on you if I’d asked for your least favorite flower.’’

  ‘‘No doubt. How about you, Desiree, any special

  preferences?’’

  Now, I wanted to avoid being specific. After all,

  with Nick a florist, whatever I said could be taken as a hint. Of course, this was just plain silly. I mean, I wasn’t volunteering the information; I’d been asked. Nevertheless, I responded, ‘‘I suppose I’m like you;

  my taste is pretty eclectic.’’

  We got into a discussion about movies during des

  sert—and by that point I was actually up to handling my chocolate-and-vanilla ice cream, mixed (which I

  very diligently mushed up the way I like it). Later on we covered our hobbies, our childhood traumas, and

  our least-liked celebrities.

  I don’t know how long we sat there talking after

  the dishes had been removed from the table, but even

  tually I developed this feeling that the headwaiter was

  giving us the fish-eye. And I shared this impression

  with Nick.

  ‘‘Harold always looks that way,’’ he assured me.

  Nevertheless, we headed for home within minutes.

  Nick got off at my floor to see me to my apartment.

  And standing there in the hall, we told each other

  what a lovely evening we’d had. Then he gave me a

  slightly more prolonged hug than he had when he’d

  greeted me, said he’d call soon, and headed for the elevator.

  Once inside, I leaned against the door and smiled—

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  insipidly, I’m sure. Nick Grainger had turned out to be every bit as nice as I’d hoped he’d be. I mean, forget his appearance. It was possible I’d respond to the man even if he were good-looking.

  Anyway, I finally abandoned my reverie and walked

  into the living room. The red light on the answering machine was flickering.

  Nonchalantly, I pressed the button.

  Then, with a mixture of incredulity and fear, I lis

  tened to the message that would catapult my investiga

  tion into a crisis mode.

  Chapter 24

  ‘‘The police paid me a surprise visit this afternoon,’’

  Allison stated in a flat, unemotional voice. ‘‘And I’d like to talk to you about it. Please don’t call me back.

  I wouldn’t want Wes to learn anything about this. I’ll phone you again in the morning.’’ And then, almost

  as an afterthought: ‘‘It seems that I’ve become the

  favorite in the ‘Who Killed Bobbie Jean?’ sweep

  stakes.’’

  Allison Lynton a murderer? I had to play the mes

  sage again; I just couldn’t believe I’d heard what I heard.

  It’s funny. When I’m really upset about something

  I either throw myself all over the bed—often until

  dawn—or I conk out at once. This latter reaction, I suppose, being a handy little escape mechanism my

  subconscious keeps in reserve. Anyhow, in this in

  stance I made one of my express trips to dreamland. I mean, I fell asleep so quickly I don’t even remember

  laying my head on the pillow.

  It was just before seven thirty when I awoke on

  Wednesday. In anticipation of Allison’s call, I made a

  beeline for the kitchen and put on the coffee to ensure

  that I’d be fully conscious when we spoke. She phoned

  at twenty to eight. ‘‘Ohh, Desiree. I’m so relieved to find you in. I was concerned that you might already

  have left for work.’’ At this hour? Fat chance! I thought, while almost simultaneously noting that Alli

  son sounded a whole lot more animated than she had

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  last night. In fact, I could detect a note of anxiety in her tone.

  ‘‘What’s happened, Allison?’’

  ‘‘Chief Porchow and that other officer—Sergeant

  Block—were here yesterday. The police . . . uh . . . discovered something that leads them to look upon

  me as a very viable suspect in my sister-in-law’s

  poisoning.’’

  Discovered something? My mouth went so dry that I could barely get the words out. ‘‘What was that?’’

  ‘‘I believe it would be better if we discussed this face-to-face.’’

  ‘‘I agree. I’ll drive up to Greenwich this morning, if

  that’s okay with you.’’

  ‘‘I’d just as soon come to New York. I could be at your office by ten, ten thirty. All right?’’

  ‘‘Fine.’’

  Now, consider that I’d grown genuinely fond of Al

  lison Lynton. Then factor in that I am by nature ex

  tremely inquisitive—nosy, if you insist. And you can

  understand why the two-plus hours that followed were

  among the longest I’d ever spent.

  Allison was wearing a cotton sheath in a shade of

  green that was almost identical to the color of her eyes. Her silver hair was pulled back into an elegant French twist, as it had been on the few previous occa

  sions I’d spent in her company. And, as usual, she had

  applied her makeup both sparingly and effectively.

  The cool, confident appearance she presented, how

  ever, was precisely that: an appearance.

  The instant she sat down on the other side of my

  desk, she began to fidget, distractedly drumming her

  fingers on her right thigh.

  ‘‘How about some coffee?’’ I suggested.

  ‘‘Thanks, but I’ve already had three cups today. If

  you don’t mind, I’d really like to get started.’’

  ‘‘Whatever you say.’’

  But regardless of her intention, Allison sat there for

  I don’t know how long without uttering a word. I had

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  pretty much made up my mind that a bit of prompting

  might be in order when she ended the silence.

  ‘‘You’re aware of Wes’s devotion to Bobbie Jean,

  so I’m certain you can appreciate that she would have

&
nbsp; been a fairly constant source of friction between us. In fact, our squabbles with regard to my sister-in-law date all the way back to our engagement days. Even

  when she was living abroad, some point of dissension involving Bobbie Jean always seemed to crop up. In

  spite of this, however, my husband and I managed to keep our conflicting opinions about her from causing

  any serious damage to our marriage. Which, when you

  consider it, has to be viewed as something of a miracle.

  ‘‘This past winter, though, something occurred that

  I was just unable to deal with. Call it the straw that broke Allison Lynton’s back.’’ She eked out a short

  laugh. ‘‘I believe I mentioned to you that Bobbie Jean

  and Geoffrey—her last husband—were in the midst of

  a trial separation when he had his fatal heart attack?’’

  She was looking to me for confirmation.

  ‘‘Yes, you did.’’

  ‘‘Well, the truth is, Bobbie Jean was hardly lonely

  being apart from her husband. Although she suppos

  edly hoped to reconcile with him, she kept herself

  from becoming too despondent over the estrangement

  by taking up with other men, one of whom was a

  neighbor of ours—a married neighbor.

  ‘‘Before long, news of the affair got back to Wes

  and me. And predictably, as disturbed as he was by

  Bobbie Jean’s latest . . . lapse, Wes invented a ratio

  nale for it. This time the culprit was the trial separa

  tion. According to her devoted brother, Bobbie Jean

  was searching for proof that men continued to find

  her irresistible—ergo, Geoff still cared for her.’’ Alli

  son made a face. ‘‘In other words, Wes’s reasoning

  had it that she was sleeping with Harry—our neigh

  bor—to convince herself that Geoffrey would soon be

  eagerly returning to her. Please!’’

  ‘‘I’m assuming that she was in love with the man—

  her husband, I mean.’’

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  ‘‘I couldn’t say. My personal opinion is that she was

  not, that she never had been, actually. I’m not at all convinced that she was even that keen to have him

  move back in with her. Knowing Bobbie Jean as I did,

  I believe she just wanted Geoff to want her again.’’

  Allison placed her hands in her lap now and moist

  ened her lower lip with her tongue. ‘‘At any rate, with

  that episode I’d simply reached my limit. Sister or

  not, I couldn’t bear listening to Wes explain away that

  woman’s abhorrent behavior even one more time. I

  told him so, too—and none too gently, either. The

  result was that a definite rift developed between us.’’

  She took a deep breath before going on. ‘‘Shortly

  after this, I ran into a friend who mentioned that Jus

  tin, an old high school beau of mine, had lost his wife

  eight months earlier. Justin and I had kept in sporadic

  touch over the years—although I hadn’t heard any

  thing from him in quite a while. Well, I sent him a note telling him that I’d only recently learned of his wife’s death and extending my condolences. He called

  to thank me for writing, and we had a long talk. Noth

  ing of a very personal nature—primarily we just did

  some catching up. And then Justin proposed that we

  have lunch one day. Naturally, this wasn’t wise, the state of my relationship with Wes being what it was. But the state of the relationship was also the very reason I agreed to meet with Justin—if this makes any

  sense to you.’’

  ‘‘It makes perfect sense,’’ I told her.

  Allison spoke slowly now, and with obvious pain.

  ‘‘Regardless of my vulnerable emotional condition,

  however, I never intended that our reunion would go

  beyond that one lunch, Desiree. But it did. There were

  more lunches, and eventually—’’ She broke off, un

  able to continue.

  I pressed her. ‘‘Eventually?’’

  ‘‘We . . . we . . .’’ She reached in her purse for a

  tissue and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘‘Eventually you became intimate?’’ I provided

  gently.

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  ‘‘Yes, but only once,’’ Allison acknowledged in a

  tremulous voice. ‘‘Of course, even once was too often.

  And it’s not as if I were in love with Justin—I don’t even find him particularly attractive. I can’t under

  stand how I could have betrayed Wes like that. And

  for what? For being a loyal brother?’’

  Okay, go ahead; call me a self-righteous prig. But I don’t happen to be a big fan of adultery. What’s more,

  as far as I know, it’s never proved a cure-all for a troubled marriage. Nevertheless, I could conceive of

  how Allison might have gotten involved with her for

  mer sweetheart in an effort to escape from her marital

  problems—even if only temporarily. Besides, the

  woman hardly needed a lecture on morals from me,

  especially then. ‘‘Don’t be too tough on yourself, Alli

  son,’’ I said in my most sympathetic tone. ‘‘With the sort of tension you were under, it’s not too difficult to imagine how something like that might occur.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Desiree, but you don’t have to make

  excuses for me. No one is more aware than I that

  there is no excuse. And the saddest part of all this is that I absolutely adore my husband. And I always

  have.’’

  I was puzzled as to where this was heading. So after

  a minute or so, I put to her, ‘‘And your relationship with Justin somehow resulted in the police calling on you yesterday?’’

  ‘‘I was about to explain. I have no idea how, but

  Bobbie Jean discovered that Justin and I had been . . .

  uh . . . together. Or at least this is what I believed at the time. In retrospect I realize there’s a strong likeli

  hood that she was merely fishing. Someone might have

  spotted the two of us having lunch and mentioned it to her. I certainly wouldn’t put it past my sister-in-law

  to pretend to know more than she actually did in

  order to trick me into an admission.’’ Allison shook her head ruefully. ‘‘If so, she succeeded.’’

  ‘‘She confronted you, I gather.’’

  ‘‘Yes, two or three weeks after I’d broken it off

  with Justin. Wes and I were more or less back to

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  normal by then—or, considering what I’d done, as

  normal as we can ever be again. I pleaded with Bobbie

  Jean not to say anything to him, if not for my sake then because of the pain it would cause him if he were

  to learn that I’d been with another man.’’

  ‘‘What was Bobbie Jean’s response?’’

  ‘‘At first she wouldn’t give me any indication as to whether or not she planned on going to Wes with

  what she’d found out. She just asked how it felt to have her sit in judgment of me, for a change. She appeared to consider this reversal of positions some

  sort of divine retribution. Then she said that she’d have to devote some thought to her intentions. She

  was leaving for Hawaii the next morning and would

  be gone for two weeks. She’d let me know her deci

  sion when she came home, she said.

  ‘‘Well, unfortunately—
very unfortunately, as it has turned out—I wouldn’t allow myself to simply sit

  around and wait. I wrote Bobbie Jean a letter to the effect that I’d never been unfaithful to Wes before

  and, more important, that I never would be again. I also made another attempt to impress upon her that

  telling him about Justin and me was the surest way to

  break his heart.

  ‘‘At any rate, when she returned from her trip, Bob

  bie Jean announced that she’d reached the conclusion

  that it was best to let the matter drop. And until yes

  terday, I was under the impression that that was the end of it. Apparently, however, she’d kept my letter in the event she changed her mind. Or perhaps to

  hold over me the next time my attitude was what she might regard as holier-than-thou. There’s even an out

  side possibility that she forgot its existence, since it was very soon after Bobbie Jean’s Hawaiian vacation

  that Geoffrey died.’’

  I gulped. ‘‘And the police got their hands on that

  letter?’’

  ‘‘Yes. They were at Bobbie Jean’s, looking through

  her things to see if there might be something there that could shed some light on her murder.’’ And then,

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  dryly: ‘‘Apparently they feel that the search was

  worthwhile.’’

  ‘‘Just what did they say to you?’’

  ‘‘Chief Porchow told me that it was obvious Bobbie

  Jean had been threatening to acquaint her brother

  with what he referred to as my ‘indiscretion.’ And I informed him that she’d agreed to keep my secret

  months ago. He said that this was probably true. But then he very pointedly asked why I supposed she’d

  been holding on to the letter like that.’’

  ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘I insisted that I hadn’t a clue, that I was astonished

  it had still been in her possession. But Porchow ap

  peared to be extremely skeptical. He has this mis

  guided theory that I’d been fearful Bobbie Jean would

  renege on her promise to me, even suggesting that I’d

  had some advance knowledge that she was planning

  to go back on her word.’’ Allison tried hard to paste a smile on her lips, but she wasn’t quite able to pull it off. ‘‘I guess things don’t look too good for me, do they?’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t say that. All the police have on you is a possible motive. And trust me, that’s hardly some

  thing they can take into court.’’