Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  ‘‘Gee, I—’’

  ‘‘Please, Dezee dear?’’

  ‘‘ Dezee dear? ’’ That was a new one on me. And it made me want to gag, too.

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  ‘‘The ladies’ room in five minutes?’’ Even Jackie’s

  eyes were pleading with me now.

  ‘‘Make it ten,’’ I said resignedly.

  When we reconvened in the powder room, Jackie

  had already slipped into one of the gowns in con

  tention—a navy silk sheathe with spaghetti straps—

  and was frowning at herself in the full-length mirror.

  ‘‘So what’s the verdict?’’ she demanded.

  ‘‘Is that the dress you bought recently?’’ I was stall

  ing for time while I tried to come up with a tactful way of offering my critique.

  ‘‘No, this is Rochelle’s.’’ She screwed up her face.

  ‘‘I look pretty awful in it, don’t I?’’

  Well, Jackie is fairly large-boned. And as I recalled from the couple of occasions when she’d had both

  Rochelle and me up to her apartment, there was a bit

  more of her than there was of this neighbor lady.

  Which would account for the gown’s pulling across

  Jackie’s stomach and straining at her ample hips. (I won’t even talk about how it cupped her tush.) At any

  rate, I finally came out with, ‘‘I wouldn’t say that’’—

  although it was certainly the truth—‘‘but I think you should be able to do better.’’

  She was already wriggling out of the thing and head

  ing for one of the stalls as I spoke.

  She emerged in a two-piece peach number—also

  silk—that I recognized instantly, having been with her

  when she bought it at Lord & Taylor several years back. I’d loved it on her then, and I still did. It was a perfect fit. Plus, the color did really nice things for her complexion and blondish-brown hair.

  ‘‘You look sensational in this,’’ I enthused. ‘‘Why

  would you have even bothered to shop for anything

  else?’’

  Jackie wasn’t persuaded. ‘‘Do you really think so?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely.’’

  ‘‘Why don’t I try on the new dress anyway, so we

  can compare.’’ She was back in the stall before I

  could respond.

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  The third gown was a lavender moire´ that just sort of hung on her. ‘‘I’m crazy about the color, aren’t you?’’ At the mirror now, Jackie’s head was at an

  almost impossible angle as she struggled to catch a

  rear view of herself.

  ‘‘It’s a lovely shade,’’ I conceded.

  ‘‘But—? I can tell there’s a ‘but.’ ’’

  ‘‘But peach is every bit as becoming to you, Jackie,

  and the style’s so much more flattering.’’

  ‘‘I suppose you’re right.’’ But she still sounded

  doubtful.

  I checked my watch: eleven thirty. ‘‘If you don’t

  wear the peach, you’re out of your mind,’’ I pro

  claimed, before scooting out of there.

  After all, I had a homicide to wrestle with. And I could probably still get in a half hour of work if I was lucky.

  As it happened, I wasn’t—lucky, I mean. Not in that

  regard, at least. I returned to my cubbyhole to learn that Wes was already in the reception area, impatient to supply me with the kind of information that would,

  once again, lead me to view this case in an entirely new light.

  Chapter 27

  Wes, I decided, looked even worse than he’d sounded.

  Worse, in fact, than when I’d seen him at the funeral home. There was a tic in his left cheek that I didn’t remember being there before. His eyes, which ap

  peared to have sunk further into his head, were watery

  and bloodshot. And the aristocratic face was only one

  shade removed from chalk white.

  He was seated across the desk from me now, and

  I’d just apologized for keeping him waiting. ‘‘Some

  thing came up, something that required my immediate

  attention.’’ (I omitted, of course, that this ‘‘something’’

  was a fashion consultation.) ‘‘And I didn’t expect you until noon,’’ I reminded him.

  ‘‘Yes, I realize that, and it’s perfectly all right. I’m just thankful you’re able to meet with me today.’’

  ‘‘What’s the matter, Wes?’’

  ‘‘I won’t beat around the bush. It’s Allison. I’ve

  become aware that not too long ago she’d . . . she’d been seeing another man.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ I said, striving to register at least mild

  surprise.

  ‘‘You don’t have to pretend to know nothing about

  this. Allison told me she was here yesterday and that she’d confided in you about . . . everything.’’

  I could feel my face getting warm; I was probably

  turning red now. God, I hate that! ‘‘And she, uh,

  talked to you about the . . . uh . . . the situation?’’

  ‘‘She did. Although I’m not certain she would have

  if I hadn’t confronted her. Since Tuesday evening,

  however, she’d been acting very unlike her usual self:

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  agitated, jumpy—I even had the impression that she

  was frightened of something. But when I originally

  tried to find out what was upsetting her—this was on Tuesday—I wasn’t successful. She attributed her state

  of mind to some sort of reaction to my sister’s murder,

  maintaining that the longer we remained in the dark

  as to the identity of Bobbie Jean’s killer, the more unnerved she seemed to get. Things came to a head

  last night, however, when I returned from the office

  and found her in our bedroom, crying her eyes out.

  ‘‘Well, to keep this narrative from being any longer

  than it has to be, I urged Allison to tell me what was really troubling her. And she finally did.’’

  My heart went out to Wes. But I didn’t have the

  slightest idea how to respond to this, so I just sat there

  like an idiot, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘‘I won’t insult your intelligence, Desiree, by claim

  ing that my wife’s involvement with somebody else is easy for me to accept.’’

  I opened my mouth to protest that Allison had

  never been involved with the man. Not in the true sense of the word. But then I thought better of it.

  ‘‘It’s not that I absolve myself of any responsibility,’’

  Wes continued thoughtfully. ‘‘My sister was very dear

  to me, and I had a tendency to try to find a modicum

  of justification for her actions, although at times it’s quite probable that none existed. Well, Allison often took exception to this. And understandably so, too,’’

  he was quick to add. ‘‘At any rate, the friction be

  tween us over my persistent defense of Bobbie Jean’s behavior finally escalated to the point where Allison

  could no longer tolerate the situation. And this led to . . . well, you already know what it led to. I’ll tell you something, Desiree. When she admitted to being

  intimate with this fellow Justin, I had an almost un

  controllable desire to put my fist through the wall. I still do. But I love my wife—that hasn’t changed. And

  I’m hoping we can work our way through our prob

  lems.’’ Evidently recognizing now that he’d revealed

  more of his feelings than he�
�d intended to, Wes

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  pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘‘I’m

  digressing,’’ he muttered. ‘‘What brought me here to

  see you is this ridiculous theory the police have evi

  dently latched onto: that Allison is culpable in Bobbie

  Jean’s death.’’

  He fastened his gaze on me. ‘‘I’m quite sure I al

  ready know the answer, but why do you think my

  wife’s . . . indiscretion . . . along with the letter she wrote, of course, suddenly caused her to emerge as

  suspect number one?’’

  ‘‘It appears to be because her seeming motive for

  doing away with Bobbie Jean is of recent origin.’’

  ‘‘That’s how I have it figured too. But what would

  you say if I told you that she isn’t the only one whose

  motive doesn’t date way back?’’

  ‘‘I’d say that I’m anxious to hear the rest of this.’’

  ‘‘And you’re about to. Let’s start with the Fremonts,

  Desiree. I understand they’re alleging that Carla and her boyfriend called it quits only this past weekend. Not true. The breakup was two weeks prior to the shower. And why would they lie?’’ It was obviously a rhetorical question, because Wes hurried on. ‘‘So it

  would appear that at the time of the murder every

  thing was rosy between Carla and this beau of hers.’’

  ‘‘And if that had been the case,’’ I summed up, ‘‘it would be highly improbable that either Carla or Robin

  would have been in a homicidal frame of mind that

  day.’’

  ‘‘Precisely. According to Allison, Carla never got

  over Roy—not completely. But she finally did find

  someone else, and things seemed to be going well for her at last. Allison and I were very happy about that, and Robin was almost delirious. Now that they’ve split

  up, however, it wouldn’t surprise me if Carla—and

  by the same token, her mother—reverted to blaming

  Bobbie Jean for the girl’s not having a man that she cared about in her life.’’

  I wanted to say that Bobbie Jean deserved the

  blame—or anyhow a good portion of it. I mean, if

  she hadn’t taken up with Roy in the first place, Carla

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  wouldn’t have had any need to replace him—and been

  in a position to have her heart trampled on all over again. But with a little effort I managed to keep my mouth shut. Wes had suffered quite enough lately

  without my sticking it to him like that.

  ‘‘So you see,’’ he said, a new intensity in his voice,

  ‘‘the Fremonts had what could be regarded as a very recent motive for killing my sister. And they’re not the only ones. It wasn’t that far in the past that Lor

  raine Corwin had a wrenching disappointment to deal

  with, for which it’s likely she also holds Bobbie Jean responsible.’’

  ‘‘I assume that this had nothing to do with losing

  her fiance´ to Bobbie Jean.’’

  ‘‘I suppose I’d have to say that the two matters are interconnected. You see, what the fiance´ never learned was that Lorraine was pregnant when he left her for Bobbie Jean—Lorraine herself wasn’t aware of it at

  that point. At any rate, she went ahead and had the baby, subsequently giving him up for adoption. Well,

  a number of years later she attempted to contact the boy. But apparently the adoptive family had moved

  out of state somewhere or perhaps out of the coun

  try—I’m not certain of the details—and she was un

  able to locate him. Then about three years back she became positively obsessed with this desire to see her son again. I’m not a psychiatrist, Desiree, but Lorraine

  had just entered menopause, and I believe the realiza

  tion that this was the end of her capacity to bear chil

  dren might have contributed to her obsession. To

  continue, though . . . It took quite some time, but a private detective she hired eventually found the son

  living in Idaho—he’s a young man now, of course, and

  he has children of his own. Sadly, however, the fellow

  absolutely refused to see her. It put Lorraine into a deep state of depression—even causing her to leave

  her job.’’

  ‘‘And then a year and a half ago, she pulled up

  stakes and came back east,’’ I remarked.

  ‘‘That’s right. Ostensibly to make a new start.’’

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  ‘‘ ‘Ostensibly?’ ’’ I echoed.

  ‘‘I don’t consider it too far-fetched to speculate that

  this failure to initiate any sort of meeting with her only child might have revitalized Lorraine’s old hatred

  for Bobbie Jean. After all, if she and her fiance´ had remained together, they would have raised the boy

  themselves. I think we’d be remiss in not considering the possibility that Lorraine either moved here spe

  cifically to murder my sister or took advantage of the opportunity when it arose.’’

  ‘‘You’re right,’’ I agreed.

  ‘‘And recently little Grace Banner, too, had some

  thing additional to lay on my sister’s doorstep. I as

  sume you’ve been advised of her husband’s failure to land a position equal to the one he held before enter

  ing into that partnership with Bobbie Jean.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Grace told me about all of that. She said that

  Karl’s employment difficulties were a result of Bobbie

  Jean’s charging them with fraud.’’

  ‘‘I suppose that’s true enough,’’ Wes conceded un

  happily. ‘‘I’d venture to say, however, that there was something Grace didn’t tell you. This winter Karl was

  found to have developed cardiac arrhythmia, although

  fortunately not too serious a case—not as yet, anyhow.

  His doctors feel that his condition is very likely stressrelated. Now, I don’t deny that this stress might be attributed, at least in part, to the reversals in the fel

  low’s professional life—I understand that he views his

  present job in particular as well beneath his talents. But I’ll wager Grace hasn’t the slightest doubt that her

  husband’s illness stems directly from that unfortunate partnership of a decade ago.’’

  ‘‘Tell me something. Do you believe the Banners were guilty of fraud?’’

  ‘‘No, I don’t. But I believe Bobbie Jean honestly

  thought they were. Not that this excuses her—she

  should have made sure of her facts before leveling

  that sort of an accusation. But her actions were

  prompted by extremely poor judgment, Desiree—and

  not by malice, as many people seem to think.’’

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  ‘‘I’m confused,’’ I declared then. ‘‘Allison had to be

  aware of her friends’ latest troubles. I mean, I’m tak

  ing it for granted that she’s the one who kept you informed. Am I right?’’

  ‘‘You are—with one exception. But I’ll explain about

  that in a moment. The only thing she didn’t mention to me was the extent to which those women held my

  sister responsible.’’

  ‘‘She didn’t say a word about any of this when she came to see me yesterday, though. And obviously she

  wasn’t any more inclined to enlighten Chief Porchow.’’

  ‘‘No, she wasn’t. I’ve been knocking myself out try

  ing to persuade her to tell the man what she knows,
but she won’t hear of it. My wife can be pretty stub

  born when she wants to be.’’ And now Wes smiled

  for the first time since he’d walked into my office. It was a faint, but unmistakably indulgent smile. ‘‘Allison

  maintains that if this Porchow could erroneously tar

  get her for Bobbie Jean’s murder, he might do the same to one of the others. And she says that she

  couldn’t bear to have that on her conscience. Also,

  she insists that the police will eventually recognize her

  innocence on their own. Naturally, she made me swear

  that I wouldn’t contact the authorities, either.’’ An

  other smile. ‘‘So I contacted you instead.’’

  ‘‘You realize that the time may come when I’ll have

  to go to the police myself.’’

  ‘‘It’s certainly occurred to me. But I’m confident

  that you won’t supply them with the source of your

  information unless you have no other option. At any

  rate, I still feel that I’ve done the right thing in filling you in on all of this. At least I’ve provided you with new areas to pursue in your investigation. And De

  siree? I’m counting on your promise not to reveal to Allison or Mike that we’ve had this meeting.’’

  ‘‘I’ll do everything I can to keep this between the two of us.’’

  Wes looked at me gratefully. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘I have a question, Wes. Allison told me that you

  were the one who let Chief Porchow in on the griev

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  ances the women had against your sister. So why

  didn’t you yourself bring up Lorraine’s son at that point? And Carla Fremont’s busted romance? And

  Karl Banner’s heart condition?’’

  ‘‘I only found out last weekend that Carla and this Len had ended their relationship prior to Ellen’s

  shower. It was the first Allison had heard about it, as well—that was the exception I just spoke about. Alli

  son and I were doing some food shopping on Sunday,

  and we ran into the woman who’d introduced the

  two—she’s the fellow’s cousin and a former neighbor

  of ours. Greta—our former neighbor—was in town

  visiting her brother. She lives in Chicago at present. At any rate, we stopped to chat, and during the con

  versation she said how terrible she felt when Len

  phoned her a few weeks back and told her that he