and Carla were no longer together.’’
‘‘So Robin hadn’t confided this to Allison,’’ I
mused. ‘‘Were you surprised?’’
‘‘Very. As a rule, there’s virtually nothing Robin
doesn’t talk to her about. But Allison was genuinely stunned. Now, let’s assume for a moment that neither
of these ladies is culpable in Bobbie Jean’s death.
Robin might initially have been hoping this parting
was a temporary one, so she decided to keep that
unfortunate development to herself for a while. Or
else Carla prevailed upon her not to say anything. In any case, though, after Bobbie Jean was poisoned,
their purpose in altering the timing of the split was as
you and I agreed a few minutes earlier.’’
‘‘No motive at the time of the murder.’’
‘‘Exactly. And of course, if one or both of these
women had had it in mind to kill my sister, it would have been all the more reason to hold off disclosing the breakup and then lie about when it occured.
‘‘Now, as for Karl Banner, it didn’t enter my mind
to mention his ailment to the Forsythe police, espe
cially since we can’t be certain the condition is even indirectly related to those old accusations of my sis
ter’s. Nevertheless, I can appreciate that it was a stu
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pid oversight on my part not to call this matter to the
attention of Chief Porchow. Until this business with
Allison, however, I had no idea that a current motive would have any greater significance for the police than
one that had been festering for years. I never thought
about it, I guess. Just plain stupid, as I said,’’ he muttered.
‘‘And Lorraine Corwin—the same reasoning holds
true there?’’
‘‘Pretty much. But, in addition, there was the fact
that some thirty-odd years ago Allison had sworn me
to secrecy about Lorraine’s pregnancy. And if I was
to be true to my word, I had to continue to remain silent about the son she’d given birth to.’’
And now, for what must have been a full minute or
two, Wes stared down at his hands, his forehead
pleated up like an accordion, the deep furrows on ei
ther side of his nose becoming deeper still. At last he told me, ‘‘Who am I kidding, though? If I’m being
honest with myself, I have to admit that there’s an
other reason I didn’t bring up Lorraine’s grief with Porchow. Or Karl’s heart condition, either.’’
‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘Look, I’m not claiming that Bobbie Jean didn’t
make her share of terribly wrong decisions. More than her share, most probably. But I believe one should
take into consideration—although I’ll spare you the
particulars—that my sister’s childhood left her with
some deep emotional scars. And incidentally, despite
what you may have heard, she wasn’t without admira
ble qualities, a great many of them, actually. I couldn’t
have asked for a more devoted sister—or a better
friend.
‘‘I imagine it’s a case of wanting to have it both ways, Desiree,’’ an obviously embarrassed Wes con
fessed. ‘‘Because as anxious as I am to see her killer brought to justice—and God knows it’s on my mind
every waking minute of every day—that’s how much
I wanted to ensure that the police didn’t come away with the wrong impression of my sister.’’
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177
The wrong impression?
‘‘I grant you that her conduct as it pertained to
those ladies was hardly commendable. But this was in the past. And you have to admit that she couldn’t
possibly have foreseen that her actions would cause
the repercussions they did. More importantly, how
ever, I did feel that I’d provided the authorities with all the facts they would require. So . . . well . . . I just couldn’t bring myself to include what I regarded as
some extraneous information. The sort that might lead
them to determine that she was . . . that might make it sound as if . . . as if Bobbie Jean weren’t a nice person.’’
Chapter 28
Only minutes after Wes left, I picked up—probably
for the hundredth time—the file labeled BOBBIE JEAN
MORTON. Today, however, I was fired up. Maybe,
thanks to Wes’s information, I would look at this file with entirely new eyes.
Still, I didn’t immediately open the folder. Instead, I pondered for a bit over some of the things that had passed quickly through my mind during the meeting
with Wes.
When he had talked about Carla Fremont, I’d been
puzzled by her decision to postdate the breakup. I
mean, hadn’t she been at all concerned that the police
would learn the real facts from her rat ex-boyfriend?
Now, however, I reasoned that there’d been little
chance the authorities would interrogate him. Besides,
if he did put a lie to her story, Carla could always maintain she was fearful that the truth might have
been regarded as a motive for eradicating Bobbie
Jean.
As for Carla’s devoted mother—ditto. In spite of
the serious nature of my ruminations, I had to smile at this point. Meryl Streep had nothing on Robin Fre
mont. Listen, you should have witnessed the perfor
mance she gave that day I drove out to talk to her. Carla would practically have her life, Robin got me
to believe, if the girl ever found out that she’d con
fided in me about this Len. And all the while, of
course, the couple was already history. I speculated
that Robin might even have been the one to come up
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179
with the idea of playing a little loose with the date of the split. Which brought me to another matter. If
Robin had poisoned Bobbie Jean, did she do it with her daughter—or because of her?
Good question, right?
I moved on to Grace Banner. As soon as Wes men
tioned her name, I’d once again silently speculated as to whether the timid Grace had it in her to commit murder. At this moment, however, I concluded that
the state of her husband’s health could very well have
provided Grace with sufficient incentive to rise to
the task.
Of course, I had no such reservations about Lor
raine Corwin. When Wes was discussing the most re
cent consequence of his sister’s appropriation of her fiance´, I’d conjured up a fleeting picture of Lorraine sneaking into the dining room in order to ensure that Bobbie Jean’s next meal would be her final one. And
in this vision of mine there was a diabolical smile on the woman’s face.
Well, I still hadn’t a clue as to which of these ladies
had actually messed with the victim’s salad. But one thing was for sure: By acquainting me with the addi
tional motives all four had been attempting to conceal,
Wes Lynton had infused my investigation with a new
vitality.
I opened the folder all but convinced that any page
now I’d be identifying a murderer.
Right after supper I was back to poring over my
notes. It was a slow, painful process, since I was posi
tively paranoid about overlooking something. I was so
immersed in my work that it t
ook me a while to real
ize that the phone was ringing. I grabbed it just as the
answering machine was about to kick in.
In response to my ‘‘hello,’’ a male voice inquired
tentatively, ‘‘Jo?’’
Already in a snit at having been interrupted, I re
torted testily, ‘‘Do I sound like my name is Joe?’’
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‘‘Don’t take out your PMS on me, lady. I was trying
to call my girl. Her name is Jo. J-0. Jo.’’ And he slammed the phone down in my ear.
I got very little satisfaction out of muttering,
‘‘Creep,’’ into the dead receiver.
I wrestled with my notes for another half hour be
fore the telephone butted in again.
‘‘Aunt Dez?’’ Ellen said. ‘‘I had to call you. Gin
ger—you know, who lives in my building—just
stopped in with the pictures.’’
‘‘What pictures?’’
‘‘The ones she took at the shower. With all that
happened there she forgot to have them developed
until the other day. I feel kind of guilty, everything considered, about getting so excited about some pho
tographs. But they came out really well, and I would like for you to see them.’’ And as a little incentive:
‘‘There are a couple of really great shots of you.’’
Now, these were mementos of Ellen’s shower, so despite the tragedy that had occurred only a short
time later that afternoon, I’d normally have been anx
ious for a look at them. But there were other matters on my mind just then—namely, uncovering a killer.
So I wasn’t exactly straining at the leash to sit down with a bunch of pictures. Add to this that I was begin
ning to get just the tiniest bit discouraged. I mean, I’d
already made a sizable dent in the folder, and so far nothing had jumped out at me. But I told myself there
was still an ample amount of ground to cover. Regard
less, though, Ellen was eager to show me those photos,
and I couldn’t just slough her off. ‘‘When can we get together so you can check them out?’’ she was asking.
I realized that in a day or two I’d probably be grate
ful for a break—particularly if things didn’t go as well
as I’d been hoping they would. ‘‘Are you and Mike
available to have dinner here Saturday night?’’
‘‘That would be great. I have Saturday off, and
Mike should be home by late afternoon, so we can
make it whenever you say.’’
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181
We settled on eight o’clock before I returned to
my labors.
I only got to study two-and-a-quarter more pages
before the phone rang for the third time that evening.
How am I supposed to make any progress here anyway?
I was about ready to chew a few nails when I lifted
the receiver. My ‘‘hello’’ came out more like a grunt than a word.
But the ‘‘Hi, Dez, it’s Nick’’ that greeted me made a remarkable difference in my mood.
‘‘Oh, hi, Nick,’’ cooed Little Miss Sweetness herself.
‘‘How are you?’’
‘‘Fine, just fine. Listen, you sounded a little harried for a moment there. Am I catching you at a bad time?’’
‘‘No, no. I was slightly out of breath, that’s all. I was, umm, running the bathwater, and I didn’t hear
the phone at first.’’
‘‘Oh. Anyway, how are you?’’
‘‘Also fine.’’
‘‘Good. I just called to touch base,’’ Nick informed me. ‘‘I thought I’d better try you tonight in case you’re
heading out of town tomorrow.’’
‘‘Heading out of town?’’
‘‘For a long weekend.’’ He chuckled. ‘‘You do know
this Monday’s Labor Day, don’t you?’’
‘‘Of course,’’ I responded more firmly than was nec
essary, since it had completely slipped my mind. ‘‘But
I’ll probably have to spend most of the time right here
in my apartment—working.’’
‘‘That’s too bad. They’re predicting great weather.’’
‘‘What about you? Are you doing anything special?’’
‘‘I have my son, Derek, for the entire weekend, and
we’ll be going to the Jersey shore. My sister has a summer home there. Uh, listen, Dez, how does a week
from Saturday sound?’’
‘‘A week from Saturday?’’ (I really do have to try
to break myself of this dumb habit of repeating what somebody else says.)
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Selma Eichler
‘‘I guess I’m not making myself very clear,’’ Nick
admitted. ‘‘If you’re free then, I thought we might
have dinner.’’
‘‘I’d like that.’’
We agreed that Nick would call for me at eight
thirty. Then I said that I wished Derek and him a
happy Labor Day, following which he wished me a
productive one.
I was positively euphoric about Nick’s asking me
out over a week in advance. I mean, could things get more encouraging than that? It was necessary to re
mind myself that it wasn’t as if the man had proposed,
for heaven’s sake. (And anyhow, it was far too early in the relationship to decide whether this was even to be wished for.)
I finally persuaded myself to settle down to business
again, but I wasn’t able to accomplish much of any
thing. I don’t deny that I was acting like a sixteenyear-old. Unfortunately, however, I couldn’t induce my emotions to catch up with my age.
Besides, how could I possibly be expected to con
centrate on my notes—now that Nick Grainger’s face
was superimposed on every page?
Chapter 29
On Friday I was at the office by an ungodly nine
fifteen.
Jackie’s eyes opened wide enough to practically
touch her eyebrows when I showed up. ‘‘What hap
pened, Dez?’’ she inquired with what looked suspi
ciously like a smirk. ‘‘You having the apartment
painted or something?’’
Well, I can’t tell you how often Jackie has made
this same crack when I’ve put in an appearance before
nine thirty. And it didn’t strike me as being particu
larly funny the first time she said it. So ignoring this pitiable attempt at humor, I started down the hall.
‘‘Dez?’’
I turned back.
‘‘Thanks for letting me try on everything for you
like that yesterday. I realize how busy you were. Oh, and I decided you were right, too—I’ll be wearing
the peach.’’
It doesn’t take much to bring me around. In other
words, I’m easy. ‘‘That’s okay, Jackie. I was glad to do it. And I’m really happy it’s going to be the peach.’’
Seated at my desk a few minutes later, I was filled with self-disgust. My behavior last night seemed more
sophomoric than ever now that I was looking at it in the uncompromising light of day. Here I was, grap
pling with what was literally a matter of life and death,
and I’d allowed some guy I barely knew to totally
short-circuit my thought processes. I removed Bobbie
Jean’s file from my attache´ case, determined to make up for my lapse.
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Selma Eichler
It was just after two wh
en I finished going over the last page in the manila folder.
Reviewing my notes with Wes’s revelations in mind
hadn’t advanced the investigation one little bit. Some
thing that was particularly hard to accept thanks to those foolish expectations of mine.
Thoroughly deflated, I went out for a sandwich and
a sorely needed break. I returned within a half hour to find the office decibels greatly reduced.
‘‘Almost everyone’s already left,’’ Jackie informed
me. ‘‘The holiday,’’ she added, in the event I needed reminding.
‘‘I know,’’ I retorted huffily, ‘‘Labor Day.’’
‘‘You going away at all?’’
‘‘Uh-uh. How about you?’’
‘‘Nope. Derwin and I will probably take in a couple
of movies. And I’ve already notified him that I expect
us to have dinner at at least one decent restaurant over the weekend—someplace where you don’t have
to carry your own tray. Then another night I may cook
us a nice meal myself—that is, if I decide he deserves it. You made any plans?’’
‘‘Well, Ellen and Mike are coming over tomorrow
night. She just got the pictures her friend Ginger took
at the shower, and she’s anxious to have me see them.
Other than that, I’ll probably be doing the same thing
I’ve been doing for close to two weeks now: trying to find out who poisoned Bobbie Jean.’’
‘‘Was Mike’s father able to shed any light on the
case?’’
‘‘Wes? Actually, he had some surprising things to
tell me. But I’m not that sure any of it will turn out to be very significant.’’
I refused to let the fact that I would have registered
a dark gray on the mood-swing scale deter me from
getting down to business again. So as soon as I was back in my cubbyhole, I began typing up my notes
on the meeting with Wes. After all, I couldn’t swear
that I’d absorbed every little thing he had to say. At
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185
least, that’s what I told myself. But I wasn’t very con
vincing.
Nevertheless, I kept at it until I’d transcribed every last word and then run off the hard copy. It was five o’clock before I was ready to exit my office, by which
hour some young law clerk and I were the only living
creatures on the premises. (That is, if you didn’t count
the big, fat roach I’d spotted in the ladies’ room ten minutes ago.)
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