Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  ‘‘I suppose it’s because she had no idea this would wind up being relevant. Either she hadn’t decided to kill Bobbie Jean—Mrs. Morton—at that point, or she

  hadn’t figured out yet how she’d be going about it.’’

  ‘‘That may very well be the explanation. Still, lying about her familiarity with the crime scene is hardly proof that the woman you have in mind did the

  murder.’’

  ‘‘There’s more. Please, just hear me out. You see,

  that familiarity is merely what led me to put up my antennae. After this, I was able to appreciate the sig

  nificance of another factor.’’

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  ‘‘Listen,’’ an exasperated Chief Porchow muttered,

  snapping that lousy pencil in half, ‘‘don’t you think it’s time you ended this little game of yours? Just who

  is it you’ve damned as Mrs. Morton’s poisoner?’’

  ‘‘I’ll show you.’’

  I opened my handbag and began rummaging around

  for one of Ellen’s yellow photo envelopes, which had apparently made its way to the bottom of the bag. I mean, wouldn’t you know it?

  As I was frantically searching for the thing, Porchow

  drummed his fingers on the desk. Causing me to ap

  preciate the pencil. ‘‘I’m wai-ting, Ms. Shapiro.’’

  At last I laid hands on the envelope. I placed it in front of him with a flourish.

  ‘‘Meet the killer of Bobbie Jean Morton,’’ I said

  triumphantly.

  Chapter 33

  Dramatic as it was, this proclamation did not exactly inspire Chief Porchow to jump up and down. Empty

  ing the envelope of the three prints it contained, he spread the photographs in front of him. ‘‘Lorraine

  Corwin,’’ he said matter-of-factly.

  ‘‘That’s right.’’

  He inclined his head to one side as he looked to

  me for an explanation.

  Stretching across his desk, I gestured toward the

  snapshot of the headless Lorraine Corwin—the shot

  that most clearly illustrated my point. ‘‘Don’t you

  see?’’ I all but shouted, rapping my knuckle on one of Lorraine’s long white gloves.

  It was obvious that he didn’t.

  I settled into my chair again. ‘‘Let me explain,

  okay? According to what you told the Lyntons,

  monkshood is a highly toxic substance that can be

  absorbed by the skin. This means that whoever stirred

  in those leaves would have been an idiot not to wear gloves. In fact, it’s more than likely she had on a pair of plastic gloves underneath the cotton ones, to be

  doubly certain of avoiding contamination.’’

  Porchow countered with, ‘‘Sounds reasonable. But

  who’s to say one of the other suspects didn’t have a pair or two stashed in her pocketbook that she utilized

  at the appropriate moment?’’

  ‘‘And wasted all that time pulling them on and tak

  ing them off? Listen, the perpetrator had to have had

  serious concerns about being discovered; it was essen

  tial to her that she get in and out of that dining room

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  in a great big hurry. Actually, I have a theory with respect to the exact way the killer—Miss Corwin—

  added the poison to the salad.’’

  ‘‘All right. Let’s hear it,’’ Porchow instructed, his curiosity apparently causing his irritation with me to dissipate—or at least go on hiatus.

  ‘‘I believe she mixed in the poison with her finger.’’

  ‘‘Her finger? But why? Why not use a spoon?’’

  ‘‘Because a gloved finger is more efficient. If she

  performed that little chore with a utensil of some kind,

  she’d first have had to get it out of her handbag. And

  then, when she was through, it would have been neces

  sary to deposit whatever it was in a bag or container of some sort before returning it to her purse. I realize

  I’m talking a matter of seconds here. But I don’t think

  it’s an exaggeration to say that every second was pre

  cious to the murderer.’’

  ‘‘True,’’ Porchow murmured thoughtfully. ‘‘But if

  the woman used her finger, the same thing would

  apply insofar as timing—at any rate, once she’d fin

  ished doctoring the salad. She’d then have had to do something about the gloves, correct?’’

  ‘‘Sure, but that’s the beauty part. She could sneak

  out of the dining room and go across the hall to the ladies’ room while still wearing them. There, of course, she could remove them where no one would catch her

  at it: in one of the stalls.’’

  ‘‘And once this was accomplished?’’

  ‘‘You mean what do I believe happened to the

  gloves?’’

  He nodded.

  ‘‘Well, I can’t picture her stowing them away some

  where and risking that they’d eventually be found. No,

  I think Miss Corwin must have stuffed them into a

  plastic bag and carried them around in her purse for the rest of the afternoon. It’s doubtful she’d have re

  garded this as much of a gamble, either. After all, she had to be aware that it wouldn’t immediately be established that a homicide had even been committed.

  So what were the odds of anyone’s checking out the

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  personal belongings of the guests? And if one of the other ladies should happen to ask about the gloves,

  she could simply claim that she’d removed them in

  order to eat her lunch. Which is exactly what I figured

  when I saw her later on.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know . . .’’ the chief mused, idly picking up one of the prints and examining it. ‘‘Wait a min

  ute,’’ he said sharply. ‘‘If Ms. Corwin had it in mind to do what you’re accusing her of, what about this

  ring of hers? Taking off the gloves would have necessi

  tated that she first slip off the ring. Then once the gloves were off, she’d have had to put it back on

  again, this time on her bare finger—I’m assuming she

  wore the ring for the remainder of the afternoon.’’

  His raised eyebrows indicated that he was expecting

  validation.

  ‘‘Yes, of course she did. But, really—’’

  ‘‘You’re going to tell me that it was no big deal. That the ring could come off and on in a hurry. Still, the woman would have wanted to return to the other

  guests as soon as possible. So if she was planning to commit a quickie little murder that day, why saddle

  herself with an extra piece of business to contend

  with—no matter how minor? Wouldn’t it have been

  more expedient to leave the ring home?’’

  I laughed. ‘‘Consider who we’re talking about here.

  I don’t believe Lorraine Corwin would have regarded

  that as an option. She would have felt naked if she hadn’t dressed up those plain white gloves with a

  flashy piece of jewelry. Listen, you’ve no doubt paid Miss Corwin a visit. Was she or wasn’t she wearing a few tons of jewelry at the time?’’

  Porchow couldn’t suppress a grin. ‘‘Well, she was pretty weighted down.’’

  And now, tilting back in his chair, the chief cleared

  his throat. ‘‘I have to admit that you’ve presented me with a very interesting theory today, Ms. Shapiro.’’

  His tone, which bordered on apologetic, tipped me off

  as to what would follow. But even though I’d been


  forewarned, the next words utterly destroyed me.

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  (Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating the least little bit, but

  this is exactly how I felt at that instant.) ‘‘The problem

  is, though, that you haven’t provided me with a shred

  of proof.

  ‘‘Let’s begin with the first point you made—I’m re

  ferring to a familiarity with Silver Oaks. I won’t even dispute that your niece’s party wasn’t Ms. Corwin’s

  introduction to the club. But the fact remains that this

  might hold true for one or more of the other suspects,

  as well.’’ It would have been too much to expect him not to throw Allison at my head again. Which, of

  course, he did. ‘‘We know, for example, that Ms. Lyn

  ton had been there before that Sunday.’’

  I decided that a reminder was in order. ‘‘But we

  can actually prove Lorraine Corwin lied about this. And I still maintain that nobody but the perpetrator would be aware of the significance of having some

  familiarity with the place.’’

  Now, I suppose I should interject here that it was

  a vague recollection of something Allison had told me

  that sent me scurrying to my file last night. It didn’t take long, either, to confirm that Lorraine had men

  tioned to her friend how much she’d enjoyed the food

  on a visit to Silver Oaks the previous year.

  Checking further, I’d located another pertinent con

  versation, one that had pretty much slipped my mind. Grace Banner had also talked about Lorraine’s prais

  ing the food there. In fact, Grace had even joked that

  this was what had motivated her to attend the shower.

  This exchange between the two women not only veri

  fied that Lorraine was already acquainted with the

  country club, but simultaneously implied that Grace

  was not.

  My notes with regard to the questioning of Robin

  Fremont added even more substance to the growing

  suspicion that Bobbie Jean’s killer had been uncov

  ered at last. Robin had said plainly that she and her daughter wanted to see what the club was like, hinting

  that it could be the site for the girl’s maybe future wedding.

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  Well, I’d learned since then that this insinuation

  about a wedding site had been just plain baloney. Nev

  ertheless, there was nothing in my file to dispute that the occasion of Ellen’s shower marked the first time

  Robin (and Carla, as well) had been to Silver Oaks. Ditto Grace Banner. And my opinion of the truthful

  ness of both ladies was reinforced about a thou

  sandfold once I was struck by the very serviceable

  nature of Lorraine Corwin’s gloves.

  But back to Porchow . . .

  Shaking his head, he was now asserting almost pity

  ingly, ‘‘If lying amounted to evidence of murder, most

  of the people I know would be behind bars. And I’m afraid I’d have to join them.’’

  ‘‘But the gloves,’’ I protested.

  ‘‘I’m getting to that. Look, I agree that already hav

  ing the gloves on would have saved valuable time. But

  I can also make the argument that the real perpetrator might not have been clever enough to consider some

  thing like that.’’

  ‘‘I still don’t—’’

  ‘‘I’m not saying you’re wrong about any of this, Ms.

  Shapiro. But I’m not persuaded that you’re right, ei

  ther. Listen, I appreciate your wanting to help. But I have to stress that if Ms. Morton’s killer is to be apprehended, it’s crucial that the police department

  be allowed to do its job without outside interference. I can’t—and won’t—tolerate anything that might com

  promise our investigation. Understood?’’

  ‘‘Understood,’’ I answered meekly.

  Now, having recently managed to convince the chief

  that I had designs on him—and in light of the degree of panic this appeared to generate in the man, I had to assume that he hadn’t yet entirely disabused himself

  of this notion—Porchow did a surprising thing just

  then. Getting up from his desk, he walked over to me

  and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. I can only surmise that this had been prompted by my expres

  sion, which must have led him to conclude that the

  possibility of my suicide could not be disregarded.

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  There was a note of genuine kindness in his voice

  when he said, ‘‘But if anything substantial should

  occur to you based on what you’ve already observed, give me a call, and I promise you I’ll look into it.’’

  Which didn’t make me feel the least bit better.

  Based on what I’d already observed? Was I sup

  posed to experience an epiphany, for heaven’s sake?

  And what in hell did he mean by ‘‘substantial,’’

  anyway?

  Chapter 34

  Driving back to Manhattan, I succeeded admirably in

  driving myself crazy. (Pun intended.)

  I admit that, emotionally speaking, I’d had my ups

  and downs—mostly downs—during the course of this

  damn investigation. But until now I hadn’t felt good enough about my progress to be this miserable on

  learning that I hadn’t really made any headway. If you

  know what I mean. This afternoon, however, I’d have

  had to climb up to reach rock bottom.

  It wasn’t just depression I was wrestling with,

  though. Almost as soon as I got behind the wheel I began to saddle myself with self-doubt, as well.

  Was I positively, one hundred percent certain that

  Lorraine Corwin had murdered Bobbie Jean?

  For a few seconds there, I actually wavered. Chief

  Porchow didn’t consider that lie about Silver Oaks,

  coupled, of course, with what I continued to regard as

  the all-important gloves, to be sufficient proof of the woman’s culpability. Well, maybe I shouldn’t be that

  satisfied with the conclusion I’d arrived at, either.

  But, no. The police had to be concerned with what

  would stand up in a court of law, while my sole inter

  est was the truth. And I still maintained that only the guilty person would have recognized the significance

  of a previous visit to the club. Plus, Lorraine was the one suspect who didn’t have to waste precious seconds

  in the dining room pulling on a pair (probably two pairs) of gloves. As for Porchow’s argument that the

  ‘‘real’’ perp might not have been smart enough to fig

  ure out the advantage of wearing gloves to Ellen’s

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  shower, well, with speed so crucial to the lady’s getting

  away with murder, how could that have failed to occur

  to her?

  This thought led me to the chief’s observation about

  the ring, and I couldn’t help but smile. Even with the key element of speed in mind, the flamboyant Lor

  raine’s very nature seemed to dictate that she couldn’t

  not wear a ring of some kind to spiff up her attire. After this I must have concentrated entirely on the

  road for all of about two or three minutes before I was back to taxing my poor, put-upon brain. I sud

  denly recalled that it was Lorraine who’d first intro

  duced the possibility of Bobbie Jean’s death having

  been
a homicide. It was on the day of the shower, in fact—just before the woman left for home. I wondered

  briefly whether she would have brought up a thing

  like that if she herself had committed the crime.

  Why not, though? Lorraine wasn’t delivering this

  opinion to the authorities. But then again, suppose she

  had mouthed off to the police. What harm would there have been in that—even if they later discovered

  there’d been foul play? If anything, with Lorraine’s

  being the one to broach the subject, she’d probably

  have been viewed as a rather unlikely assassin. I de

  cided that if Mrs. Corwin had given birth to any stupid

  children, none of them was named Lorraine.

  By the time I got home I’d managed to work my

  way through all the sticking points. Which left me with

  one small question: What next?

  Chief Porchow had requested—no, mandated—that

  I desist from checking into Bobbie Jean’s murder. But

  while I didn’t have the slightest idea where I could go

  with my investigation at this stage, I had every inten

  tion of going somewhere with it. And it isn’t that I was so sure the Forsythe police wouldn’t eventually

  arrive at the truth—they might very well. I just

  couldn’t afford to chance it. Listen, if I left it to them,

  any day now I might be baking Allison a cake with a file in it.

  It was when I was standing in front of the door

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  to my apartment, turning the key in the lock, that I determined what my next move had to be.

  Right after supper I dialed Dominick Gallo’s home

  number. Last week his answering machine had notified

  me that the vacationing Silver Oaks waiter was due

  home today. And I didn’t care if he hadn’t even had a chance to unpack yet; I’d waited long enough to talk

  to him. The truth is, while I didn’t expect to learn anything from Gallo, I considered him a loose end.

  And I hate loose ends.

  ‘‘Hello,’’ said a rich baritone voice.

  ‘‘I’d like to speak to Mr. Gallo, please.’’

  ‘‘You already are,’’ the man responded. I could ac

  tually hear the smile.

  I gave my name and explained that I was a private

  investigator looking into the death on Sunday, August

  seventeenth, of Mrs. Bobbie Jean Morton. ‘‘The au

  topsy report shows that Mrs. Morton was poisoned,’’