Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  I apprised him.

  ‘‘I heard.’’

  ‘‘You did? ’’ I mean, Gallo had gone away some

  where the day after the murder—when the cause of

  death had yet to be established. ‘‘Didn’t you just re

  turn from vacation?’’

  ‘‘Yup, a few hours ago. But a couple of the people I work with at Silver Oaks got in touch with me while

  I was up in the Poconos—they filled me in on what

  happened. And then about an hour before you called,

  I spoke to the Forsythe Chief of Police—he’d left a message on my machine last week. I told him I didn’t

  know anything.’’

  ‘‘It’s always possible that you know more than you

  think you do, Mr. Gallo. That’s why I’d appreciate it if we could talk in person for a few minutes. How

  about tomorrow?—at any place that’s convenient for

  you. I could drive out to Silver Oaks or we could meet

  somewhere or we could do this at my office or in your

  home.’’ The words tumbled out on top of each other

  before the man had an opportunity to interrupt.

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  The second I concluded my pitch, however, I had

  doubts about the necessity for a meeting. I imagine

  I’d requested it out of habit—I’ve discovered that it normally pays to interrogate somebody face-to-face.

  Besides giving you a much better chance of wearing

  down your subject, other factors come into play, as

  well. You’d be surprised at what you can learn from a

  twitching upper lip or a pulsating vein. In this instance,

  though, it was extremely improbable that there was

  anything to learn. The dismal results of that afternoon I’d spent seeking information from the other Silver

  Oaks employees had to be regarded as an indication

  of what I could look forward to with Gallo.

  I was actually relieved when he nixed the idea of a get-together. ‘‘Driving out to Long Island to see me would be a waste of your time, Ms. Shapiro. Believe me.’’

  ‘‘Well, okay,’’ I agreed readily enough. ‘‘But there

  are a couple of matters I would like to cover with you.

  We could do it now, though, on the phone.’’ I threw in, ‘‘I promise that it won’t take long,’’ as an incentive.

  ‘‘All right.’’

  I proceeded to ask Dominick Gallo pretty much

  what I’d asked his coworkers. At this juncture, how

  ever, it was mostly to establish some sort of rapport with him before posing the only question that really mattered anymore.

  At any rate, going through the motions, I estab

  lished that Gallo knew the victim only by sight. Also, that he had no knowledge—or so he claimed—of any

  romantic entanglement and/or feud she might have

  had with either a Silver Oaks employee or one of her

  fellow country club members. In fact, he assured me

  he’d never heard anybody mention her name.

  And then I put the big one to him: ‘‘Did anything

  take place that Sunday that struck you as being at

  all unusual?’’

  Gallo hesitated before replying. It was only a splitsecond pause. And I probably wouldn’t have been aware of it if I hadn’t been so anxious for a positive

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  response—my low expectations notwithstanding.

  ‘‘No, nothing.’’

  ‘‘Listen, if there was something, please tell me.’’

  ‘‘But—’’

  Before he could reiterate his denial, however, I

  went to work on the man. ‘‘Look, Mr. Gallo, I find

  it extremely difficult to accept the possibility of any murderer’s not being apprehended. But that the killer

  of Bobbie Jean Morton might never be brought to

  justice is something I refuse to let myself so much as consider. Please. Let me tell you a little about this woman.’’

  And then, with no compunction whatsoever, I pro

  ceeded to lie my glorious hennaed head off. ‘‘She was

  very special—a warmhearted, generous, and muchloved human being. Nobody I’ve come into contact with has had anything but praise for that lady.’’ (I almost gagged here, recalling how—whenever they

  spoke of the dead woman—the suspects all sounded

  as if their tongues had been dipped in venom.) ‘‘Bob

  bie Jean Morton donated untold sums to charitable

  causes. She did volunteer work at the hospital. And

  she delivered meals to homebound AIDS patients.

  Not only that, but she made every effort to keep her good works a secret. I think you should know this,

  too. Mrs. Morton recently lost a husband she was very

  much in love with. And almost simultaneously she had

  to grapple with some additional personal problems,

  problems that required a great deal of courage for her

  to overcome. That’s not all, either. . . .’’ I went on in the same vein for a short while longer. And when I was through I’d almost convinced myself that Mother

  Teresa wasn’t worthy to so much as touch the hem of

  Bobbie Jean’s skirt.

  ‘‘I wish I could help you, Ms. Shapiro. It sounds as if Ms. Morton was a wonderful person. But, honestly, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary going on that day.’’

  Now, I could have sworn he’d given that ‘‘I’’ just

  the least bit of emphasis. ‘‘Who did, then?’’

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  ‘‘I don’t understand what you mean.’’

  ‘‘ You didn’t notice anything suspicious. But some

  body else saw or heard something and told you about

  it. Am I right?’’

  Seconds ticked off before Gallo politely declared,

  ‘‘No, you’re not.’’

  ‘‘Look, I hope you’ll do whatever you can to per

  suade this individual to come forward.’’ I was almost pleading with the man. ‘‘I realize that a lot of people want to avoid getting involved in anything like this. But you have to wonder—don’t you?—how these

  same people would feel if someone close to them were

  harmed and all the witnesses shut their eyes to what had occurred.’’

  ‘‘I take your point, Ms. Shapiro. But you’ve got this

  wrong. Nobody mentioned spotting anything peculiar.

  Not to me, anyway.’’

  My sigh came all the way from my toes. ‘‘All right. Let me give you my phone number, though—just in

  case.’’

  I recited the number, and then we said good-bye.

  But just before we hung up, Dominick Gallo mur

  mured so softly that the words were all but inaudible,

  ‘‘I really am sorry.’’

  Chapter 35

  Postponing dinner for a while, I sat down at the

  kitchen table with a cup of coffee. (I figured if that God-awful stuff didn’t shoo the cobwebs from my

  head, nothing would.) It took only five or six sips be

  fore I deemed myself fit to analyze my conversation

  with Gallo.

  Predictably, I began by challenging myself.

  When I’d asked the man whether he was aware of

  anything unusual transpiring that Sunday, had I really picked up on a telltale bit of hesitation? And later, with regard to this same topic, had he really empha

  sized the ‘‘I’’? (As in ‘‘ I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary going on that day?’’)

  After all, how likely was it that the very last em

  ployee of Silver Oaks that I questi
oned was the indi

  vidual who could help me nail the killer? I reminded myself that if I’d actually heard what I thought I had, Gallo wasn’t the one who could wrap up this case

  for me. It was some nameless, shadowy friend of his, someone I’d probably interrogated earlier.

  Of course, I still had to concede the possibility that my imagination had been on overdrive, being that I

  was so desperate to get Lorraine Corwin into one of those fashionable prison jumpsuits I’ve always ad

  mired on TV.

  Well, one thing was definite, anyway. I’d done ev

  erything I could to induce Gallo to put a little pressure

  on his buddy—assuming, that is, there even was such

  a buddy. I mean, by the time I was through painting that laudatory word picture of Bobbie Jean, I wanted

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  the amoral witch for my very best friend, for heav

  en’s sake!

  Nevertheless, I made up my mind that if Dominick

  Gallo didn’t contact me in the next few days, I’d take

  another stab at him.

  And now I switched to the problem of the moment:

  figuring out how to move the investigation in the

  meantime.

  But before I had a chance to give this any serious consideration, Ellen called to let me know how much

  she and Mike had enjoyed last night’s dinner.

  It was a pretty short conversation, and I had just

  gotten back to taxing my brain to come up with a

  couple of interim plans, when Harriet phoned. ‘‘I

  haven’t talked to you in a while,’’ she told me, ‘‘so I thought I’d say hi.’’

  I was surprised to hear from her. ‘‘I expected that you and Steve would have gone someplace for the

  holiday.’’

  ‘‘No, we’re where we usually are—right across the

  hall from you. We’d intended to get away, but then

  Steve’s boss invited us to this barbecue he was having

  this afternoon—we just got home a few minutes ago,

  as a matter of fact. If you ask me, the man purposely scheduled it for today so his executives would be stuck

  in town for the Labor Day weekend.’’

  ‘‘The guy must be a real sweetheart.’’

  ‘‘That he is. But anyway, how are you doing?’’

  ‘‘So-so.’’

  ‘‘No luck with finding the murderer yet, huh?’’

  ‘‘Not really.’’

  ‘‘Listen, Steve and I are going to his cousins’ place in Queens tomorrow. And if you have nothing else

  planned, why don’t you drive out there with us?’’

  ‘‘Gee, Harriet, I—’’

  ‘‘Don’t tell me you’re too busy with work. We all

  need a break sometimes. And you’d certainly be wel

  come there. Steve’s already checked with them about

  bringing a friend—we were both hoping I could per

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  219

  suade you to come along. Anyway, Mel and Ramona

  assured him that they’d be delighted to have you.’’

  Well, why not? I could use a break. I was all set to say yes when Harriet added, ‘‘They have a beautiful

  pool, too. So be sure to bring along a swimsuit.’’

  Now, I’m pretty comfortable with my appearance.

  But still, I scrupulously avoid the kind of clothes that practically invite the world to count my dimples. (And

  I’m not talking about the ones I don’t have on my

  face, either.) So, naturally, bathing suits would have to occupy a space at the very top of my ‘‘What Not to Wear’’ list. Although I admit that I did allow Jackie to badger me into buying a swimsuit that time I ac

  companied her to Aruba (which is a whole other

  story). The way you dress in the tropics is one thing, though. But to prance around in something like that

  in Queens, New York? I’d die first!

  ‘‘That sounds wonderful, Harriet. And I’d love to

  go. But I have to follow up on a couple of leads con

  cerning the poisoning, and it’s not something I can

  postpone.’’

  ‘‘I can’t convince you to change your mind?’’

  ‘‘Uh-uh. I’d better not weaken. But thanks for

  thinking of me. And thank Steve for me, too.’’

  I hope you realize that I hadn’t lied to Harriet—

  not unless you insist on being really technical. After all, I did have a couple of leads. And I did intend to pursue them. The one teeny little falsehood to come out of my mouth was that I’d claimed I would be

  doing the pursuing tomorrow, when in actuality I

  hadn’t the slightest notion yet how I should even go about it.

  But anyway, I had to acknowledge that Harriet was

  right; I needed some time off from the investigation. And while I initially toyed with the idea of calling a friend and taking in a movie or even getting some

  last-minute theater tickets, before long I was derailed by a pretty heavy case of the guilts. Which led me to

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  decide that I’d devote Monday to a project I’d sorely neglected since becoming involved with Bobbie Jean’s

  murder: cleaning my apartment.

  And I ask you, can you think of a more fun way to

  spend a holiday than scrubbing out your toilet bowl?

  Chapter 36

  On Monday I came to the conclusion—and not for

  the first time, either—that it really isn’t fun to scrub out your toilet bowl. Or mop your floors. Or scour

  your tile. Or even polish your furniture, for that

  matter.

  For a moment my mind leapt back a few years to

  the days when I could leave a lot of that nasty business

  to Charmaine, my every-other-week cleaning lady.

  Unfortunately, however, Charmaine wasn’t around

  anymore. Oh, I don’t mean that she died. You see,

  right from the beginning she just wouldn’t show up

  half the time. And then eventually she stopped show

  ing up any of the time.

  At any rate, having spent over four hours that after

  noon doing battle with grime and gunk, after supper

  I lay prostrate on the sofa, watching TV. It was almost

  ten when Nick phoned. His voice was an instant pickme-up.

  ‘‘I hope I didn’t wake you,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Oh, no. I’m a night person. I’ll be up for hours yet.

  How was your weekend at the beach with Derek?’’

  ‘‘Great. He’s a terrific little guy.’’ He laughed. ‘‘And

  I’m not the least bit prejudiced, I swear. What about you? Were you able to take some time off from your work to enjoy yourself?’’

  ‘‘Actually, yes—one evening anyway,’’ I informed

  him, hoping this might cause the man to wonder what

  I’d been doing that night. And who I’d been doing

  it with.

  But if Nick was engaging in any wondering, he cov

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  ered it up quite nicely. ‘‘I’m glad to hear it. Uh, the reason I’m calling, Desiree, is because I’m going to have to break our date for next Saturday.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’

  ‘‘I’m really sorry, but Tiffany is anxious to fly to Las Vegas with her boyfriend tomorrow. He’s in a

  rock band—he’s quite a bit younger than Tiffany—

  and the group’s been booked at one of the clubs out there. She asked if Derek could stay with me until she

  gets back next Sunday, and I couldn’t say no.’’

  ‘‘Of course not. We can do it another
time. How

  will you manage with your son, though? Being at work

  all day, I mean.’’

  ‘‘Tiffany thinks of everything,’’ he stated, the merest

  hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘‘She’s arranged for a former nanny of Derek’s to pick him up at school and

  bring him here. She’ll prepare his dinner and look

  after him until I come home.’’

  ‘‘Well, then, it doesn’t sound as if there’ll be any problem.’’

  ‘‘Actually, I’m very happy that Derek will be with

  me for so many days. The only thing I regret is having

  to cancel with you.’’

  ‘‘Like I said, we’ll do it another time.’’

  Nick thanked me for being so understanding and

  said he’d call me soon to reschedule.

  Naturally, I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be

  seeing Nick this weekend, but I managed to console

  myself. After all, it wasn’t as if this thing between us—

  whatever it was—was over before it started. We’d be

  getting together again before long.

  Nevertheless, it was something of a letdown, so to take my mind off it—and with the television blaring—

  I shifted my focus to Lorraine Corwin. And that’s

  when this nagging little doubt took hold of me and

  refused to let go.

  Yesterday I’d pooh-poohed all of Chief Porchow’s

  objections to my explanation of the murder. But this evening, revisiting my conversation with him, I began

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  223

  to wonder if perhaps he’d made one point that I’d

  been too quick to dismiss.

  And while I didn’t actually consider it crucial to my theory, I found myself suddenly having second

  thoughts. And they were troubling.

  In bed that night, a single word kept repeating in

  my head: Why?

  It was a long time before I was finally able to drift off into a fitful sleep.

  Now, my friend Barbara has always maintained that

  when you finally give up (consciously, at any rate)

  trying to figure out something that’s been puzzling

  you—this is when your brain is apt to start operating at top efficiency.

  And damned if my eyes didn’t fly open at around

  three thirty a.m.

  ‘‘Lucrezia Borgia,’’ I said aloud.

  Chapter 37

  I had, of course, made a colossal mistake.

  I’d tried to convince Chief Porchow (and myself, as